


Five Istari and Four Warlocks

by darienqmk



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure, Crossover, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:40:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 101,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21592423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darienqmk/pseuds/darienqmk
Summary: (Loose) sequel to 'Through the Veil'. Harry, Fleur, Katie and Ron travel to Middle-Earth as part of their interdimensional apparition experiment. The four pseudo-immortals tend to procrastinate a lot. Just like Gandalf and the Elves, really.
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Harry Potter, Katie Bell/Ron Weasley
Comments: 9
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, dear reader. Welcome to Five Istari and Four Warlocks. Knowledge of the prequel, Through the Veil (FFN), is not really needed - I'm intending this to be quite separate in tone and premise from the first of the series. If you've already read Through the Veil, feel free to skip to the start of the story.
> 
> Without spoiling too much, in Through the Veil, Ron and Harry discovered multiversal apparition via the Veil of Death; they returned to child bodies and re-attended Hogwarts; after Ron married Katie and Harry married Fleur, the four of them began hopping universes while they searched for true immortality. After they found a combination of things close enough to true immortality that the distinction didn't really matter, they began screwing around in various universes to amuse themselves. In this story, the four of them visit the first non-Earth world; Arda, and specifically, Middle-Earth.

A swirling myriad of colors.

It was similar to jumping through the Veil, but by God was it confusing. Interdimensional apparition was basically the same as its less powerful counterpart; it was all based on where you wanted to go and how. But there was so much more to consider. When you wanted to arrive, and whether you wanted to arrive on a specific continent or a specific town or beside a specific tree. It also became infinitely more difficult when you couldn't really _see_ where you were going.

That might have been why Ron and Katie were torn from Harry and Fleur's grip as they tumbled through the plane of nothingness.

Harry tried to reach back out towards them, but by the time he'd realized anything was wrong, he'd landed. Soft. White. Cold? Strange. Harry tried to stand up, only to find a ridiculous migraine and nausea take over his body, sending him back onto his knees as he threw up everything he ate in the last week.

The sound of retching beside him notified him that Fleur wasn't faring much better. That was nice to know; at least he wasn't suffering alone.

As his eyes began to focus, he tried to make out the landscape they were in. Snow? He didn't know where there was snow on Middle-Earth - if he'd even arrived on Middle-Earth at all. Perhaps he'd landed in some other weird continent that Tolkien's mythology didn't cover. Was he in the Caradhras? Surely not - there was no mountain nearby, though there were faint outlines towards the south. No, this region was all frosty winter wonderland and not much else. There were patches of coniferous forest, and a few hills, but nothing of note.

Fuck's sake.

"Hey, baby," Harry said mockingly. "How are you feeling?"

" _Merde_ ," Fleur spat in response, making Harry chuckle. She slowly straightened. "Where are we?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," Harry said, pulling her closer for warmth. Her Veela blood burned through her body like liquid fire - and goodness, was it useful right now. "We're obviously in the polar region, judging by the obscured sun right there. Fuck, this place is a wasteland, isn't it? Maybe it's far north."

"Towards the North Pole? Possible," Fleur said.

Harry patted down his pocket, blinking, as he felt a vibration from that region. He pulled out a small handheld mirror. This was good! Ron and Katie were in this world, then. "Ronald Weasley," Harry enunciated clearly into the mirror, and Ron's face popped up.

"Merlin's balls, Harry, you sent us to this sweltering hellhole!" Ron accused angrily.

"How is that my fault? Maybe you weren't holding on tight enough!"

"Ron, shut up," Katie's voice spoke, and her face pushed Ron's aside. "Hey Harry, Fleur. I'm glad to see you both made it as well. Where are you? We're in a desert of all places. It's so fucking hot, I want to die. My clothes are already sticking to my tits."

"I don't see how that's a problem," Fleur said with lustfully. Katie rolled her eyes.

"Where are you?"

"We're in a desert of a different kind," Harry replied. "We must be up very far north, because there's snow everywhere and surprisingly, no mountains. Fleur and I were just thinking we might have landed north of the Grey Mountains."

"I think we're in Harad," Katie said. "South of Gondor, you know?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "That would make sense. But anyway. Are you guys safe? No injuries, no interdimensional splinching?"

"None we can tell," Ron said. "We did a good job on that, I think, even if there were a few destination troubles."

"First things first, let's figure out what time we're in," Harry suggested. "Are we in the first, second or third age? Are there Istari in this world yet? Since we're in a winter wasteland with literally no sign or even possibility of civilization, we're going to leave the information-gathering to the two of you."

"Fine," Katie sniffed. "That is, if we don't turn into dry husks in the next week."

"Yeah, yeah," Harry waved her off. "We'll call you again, once the sun goes down. See if either of us have any new developments. But have you, Fleur included, noticed how magic-rich this world seems to be?"

A pause, as the others considered his observation. "You're right," Ron admitted. "It's hard to tell because of how fucking painful the sun is - Morgana's saggy tits, I'm gonna end up with terrible sunburn, aren't I? - anyway, I think I can feel it. This place is a desert without much life, but it's definitely richer than the deserts in our original world."

"I can also smell necromancy from the east," Katie said, sniffing the air. "I'm guessing that's the stench of Mordor."

"Probably," Ron agreed. "Or maybe it's the stench of your armpits."

"Shut the fuck up, Ronald."

"One good thing about the cold is that there is no body odor," Fleur smirked.

"And one bad thing might be the joint pain," Harry sighed. "Why couldn't I have been dropped off in the Shire? Nice climate, sunny and warm…"

"At least we didn't get dropped off in the middle of the sea," Ron said, and everyone considered just how fortunate they were in that case.

"Anyway," Harry said. "I think we need to agree on a few things. The biggest thing being, no powerful magic. I'm almost certain that the Istari, Sauron, and other unfavorable characters will be able to sense any grand magic that we perform. That will draw unnecessary attention to us and possibly alter the timeline."

"We can't have that," Fleur tacked on. "While we are powerful, we are not so powerful that we might be able to fight Sauron and his entire army on equal terms. We must not be foolish."

"Damn," Ron sighed. "Although I think that people will already have discovered our presence, considering our grand entrance into this world."

"That's a good point," Harry combed his fingers through his messy black hair. "Fuck. So the biggest players probably already know we've arrived, and possibly will try to find us. Keep your Occlumency on maximum, the Palantirs may be able to attack us from far away. Stay cautious, watch out for spies - animals included - do not perform massive feats of magic, do not alter crucial events of the timeline. We can meet in Bree in a few years and visit the Shire where we can catch up."

"Sounds fine to me," Katie nodded quickly. "Ron, we have to get out of here. If what you said was true, we'll be discovered if we stay here long. And those fuckers got the luck to be further away from Mordor than us."

"Who knows, we might be closer to Angmar than you," Harry said with a raised eyebrow. "I trust you guys are holding onto Fawkes?"

Ron grimaced. "Yeah. The little bugger is loving it in this heat. I hate him and his showing-off."

As if on cue, the gold and copper-plumed phoenix landed on the redhead's shoulder, with a beautiful trill that, even through a mirror and several thousand miles, warmed Fleur's and Harry's spirits. Harry smiled at Dumbledore's old bird. "I hope you heard everything, Fawkes. This world is much more dangerous than our own; keep your magic to a minimum, please. Stay with the two of them, don't go out too far."

Fawkes bobbed his head in agreement. Harry smiled at him. "And you've still got Alduin with you?"

Harry peeked under his wizard's robe to find the tiny lizard snoozing. "Yeah. She's asleep."

Alduin was one of three children that Harry and Fleur had birthed - though unlike the human kids, Alduin had been created through a magical experiment and ritual to create the deadliest apex predator. Named after the famous video-game villain from the lizard's likeness to it, Alduin, _Draco tyrannus_ , was Harry and Fleur's response to the likes of Ancalagon the Black, a hybrid of the most powerful creatures that their world had to offer. If one combined Slytherin's serpent, an Ukrainian Ironbelly, Fawkes' elemental flame-magic, a Nundu's physical and magical resilience, and a hippogriff's pride, it would result a giant black dragonlord.

Though in reality, Alduin was a bit of a lazy slob who liked to snooze all day.

"Good. She'll be a big help in this world," Ron nodded. "I'll see you both tonight, even if only to compare our days. Take care, Harry, Fleur."

"You too," Fleur said, and the mirror went blank. Harry tucked it back into his pocket, and cast a wandless warming charm on himself.

"Where to now?" Harry wondered, and Fleur tapped her chin.

"This area is saturated in magic," Fleur said. "I sense plenty of magical creatures around us, even if this place seems like a wasteland. Perhaps we can try that forest?"

And so they did. They began to hike through the dense snow, although with all the training that they had, it was really no trouble for either Harry or Fleur. Harry and Fleur had retrieved their white snow-cloaks from their shrunken mansion-trunks, and after pulling on some gloves and a mask, the arctic weather was bearable, even comfortable. They hiked into the nearest woods to find that the sun had gone down at that point, though that was to be expected with them being so far up north.

"Look!" Fleur whispered, pointing. "A bunny!"

Harry turned to look at where Fleur was pointing and sent a discreet wave of magic at it; like radar, it bounced back with information that a small creature was hidden in the snow. Harry squinted, and saw it; the white-furred hare was difficult to notice in the snow and dark, but it was there and it was admittedly pretty cute. Reminded him of Luna, actually, the way it sat up on its hind legs and examined the two of them with round black eyes. It eventually decided they were not worth examining and hopped back inside its burrow.

They continued to hike for a while longer - they spotted some elk as well - and eventually when it got too dark to see, Harry transfigured the snow into a spacious igloo for them to spend the night in. The two sorcerers crawled inside. Protected from the biting wind, it was quite warm. Harry used the summoning spell to bring him some twigs, of which he created a pile of in the center. He blew on the pile gently, creating a small, crackling flame.

Harry collapsed onto his back and Fleur did the same. Their small hideout was silent save for the crackling of the small fire. Fleur turned her head to look at Harry, who was examining Alduin crawl out of his breast pocket and curl up in front of the fire, much like a cat. Eventually, Harry's green eyes met Fleur's blue.

"What are we going to do?" Fleur asked softly.

"We'll head south," Harry said. "If we circle around the east of the Grey Mountains and go south, we should be able to find the Lonely Mountain. From there, we'd be able to find civilization, of which Mirkwood is the closest."

"And we can meet Legolas!" Fleur exclaimed happily.

"Yes, yes. Your celebrity crush," Harry said dismissively, before studying her more intently. "You know, if the elves really are a race of supermodels, then you could fit in as an elf as long as you hide your ears."

"Why, thank you," Fleur smiled at the compliment. Many men, and women, had called her attractive before using a lot of flowery language, but she liked it best when Harry said it. "I'd imagine my looks are all that will keep you from burying your cock into the nearest elf-maiden."

"Yeah, right?" Harry snorted. "I'm not _that_ promiscuous, you know. In fact, I'm quite certain you've had more sexual partners than I've ever had, especially being a Veela and all."

"But you flirt with anything that has tits and walks on two legs."

"Ah, you see, that's where you're wrong," Harry said. "I've also flirted with a centaur."

Fleur snorted, then laughed heartily, disturbing Alduin who glared at her before closing her eyes again and going back to sleep. Fleur smiled happily at Harry, and squeezed his hand, to which he smiled and squeezed back.

"If you do try to flirt with the elf-maidens, I shall flirt with King Thranduil and get him to exile you."

"Not if I get to him first."

"You must rely on your ill-earned pick-up lines while I can use my allure."

"Which the mighty King of Elves will fall like a complete sucker for, I'm sure."

They spent another moment in silence, basking in each other's company. It was a shame they'd been separated from Katie and Ron, both of them being almost as close to her as Harry was, such that they had literally no secrets from each other. But it was also nice that she got to spend some time with Harry alone. How long had it been where only the two of them had spent a significant amount of time together? Was it… back when Harry was the President of the USSR? Or was it back when they were propping up Hagrid as the Dark Lord of Britain?

"Will we involve ourselves in the War of the Ring, Harry?"

Harry took a moment before responding. "I'd imagine we will. We're going to get sucked into the war eventually, and Sauron's resurrection will spell trouble for even ourselves. Plus, I'd imagine Bilbo is a better conversationalist than the Witch-King."

Fleur snorted. "I suppose that's true. What do you expect to do before then?"

"Do what we've always done, minus the destructive tendencies," Harry said with a sound that implied a shrug. "Travel, learn new things. I'm keen on learning Dwarven smithing techniques - if they're anything as good as the goblin smiths back home, they will be a very good skill to have. Imagine having plate armor with the same durability as Gryffindor's Sword."

"Especially if they're made of mithril," Fleur agreed. "I want the Arkenstone."

"I see your tendency to collect trophies hasn't disappeared," Harry said dryly. "Sure, we can try to get the Arkenstone, if the Dwarrows haven't already found it. As pretty as it is, I'm not going to be on the receiving end of an angry Dwarven army because you like pretty things."

"Of course I like pretty things. I need an outfit befitting my status as a goddess, after all," Fleur said with a smirk. "You might be content looking like a homeless vagabond whenever we're traveling worlds, but I? I would want to look befitting of my status as a woman who has learned much, traveled much, and accomplished much."

"I suppose," Harry grunted.

"Maybe I can cut the Arkenstone into smaller pieces," Fleur mused, lost in her little daydream. "I can replace the sapphires in Ravenclaw's Diadem with pieces of the Arkenstone… turn the sapphires into a pair of earrings. If there's any Arkenstone left over, I'll turn it into a pendant…"

"Simply fascinating, Fleur, but I'm going to cut you off there," Harry sighed.

"Imagine. Once we grow tired of this world, we can visit the World of Ice and Fire. Unlike Earth or even Middle-Earth, Westeros does not have any form of flamboyant, noticeable magic - now imagine if a woman even more attractive than Galadriel, dressed in mithril and goblin-silver and Arkenstone, arrives on the Wall and burns it down under her feet! I will be hailed as a goddess, no doubt - and you can be my servant if you wish."

"I have no interest in feeding your ego."

"You're a terrible liar. You love it when I patronize other people," Fleur accused. "Not to mention the fact that you're infatuated with me and would do anything for me. It's cute the way you act so tough and gruff but you're just a big softie inside."

"And you're a manipulative bitch who uses my infatuation for satiating her desire to be noticed, with the audacity to even brag about it in front of my face."

"Don't be that way, Harry. You know I love you."

"I know you do," Harry said, his voice softer and more loving. Fleur's heart warmed.

"Now that we've discovered we can travel to other worlds, what other worlds do you want to visit?"

"Many of them," Harry said vaguely. "I mean, I don't have any real order set out in mind so I can't tell you where I want to go _the most_ or anything like that. But you mentioned a World of Ice and Fire - that's a pretty big sandbox to play in, with its own form of magic I can study. I'm also sure I'd very much enjoy seducing Karrin Murphy in front of the second coolest magical Harry. Beyond that, I have a bunch of ideas, but none that I'm certain of yet."

"So your goal is to…?"

"Become the most powerful magical entity in the multiverse?" Harry smiled. "Then maybe I can become a hermit. Live in recluse and teach visitors the mystic arts."

"You have the strangest desires, sometimes."

"Honestly, Fleur, I've lived for God knows how long and I've had my fair share of excitement. I've literally burned the world in nuclear fire. I've set up Hagrid as a puppet Dark Lord and controlled the world through him. I lived an entire lifetime without once using my magic and still became humanity's first trillionaire. This isn't to say I'm not a grumpy old man who hates the concept of having fun, but I'm more patient these days. I like having peace and quiet, once in a while. And honestly, I think this world - when it's not in apocalyptic war, obviously - provides a lot of both."

Fleur smiled. Harry really was a big softie inside. But one that Fleur respected, loved and trusted with her life. Because while he was a softie, he could also be an unstoppable force, a hurricane of power, and inevitably, every world would bow to his might.

* * *

Several months had passed. Harry and Fleur continued to trek through the snowy land, taking in the sights. Harry liked to call himself a scholar, but Fleur considered him more of a tourist. He had a magical camera (not the same magical camera that still took photographs in monochrome - a proper, retina-quality photograph with unbelievably vibrant colors) that he used to take photographs of the forests, the snow-covered hills, the bears and bunnies and foxes, and a species of giant cat.

The giant cat had managed to sneak up on the two of them; Fleur honestly had no idea how. Their senses, physical and magical, were honed to a point sharper than any goblin blade; no living thing should have been able to sneak up on them, even at night. And yet, the giant cat had managed, its thick padded feet completely silent in the crisp snow.

The cat, which was as large as a tiger but had leopard-like prints, had pounced on Harry from the shadows. Harry barely managed to cast a shield in time, surprised as he was. The cat was knocked back, but it didn't attack after that, merely observing. It had turned into a tension-filled staring contest. The cat approached, warily and slowly, before Harry hesitantly put out his hand. The cat sniffed, then to their surprise, gave a loud rumbling purr before butting its head against his hand.

As a result, Harry, Fleur, and Alduin now had a new companion - Mufasa the Wasteland Cat.

Harry was fascinated. His hypothesis was that Mufasa was a highly intelligent magical creature, capable of performing stealth magic on itself, magic for suppressing noise and a crude version of a notice-me-not. It also seemed to be able to understand what Harry or Fleur was saying at times - or at least their emotions and basic ideas or concepts.

Alduin, predictably, became jealous at all the attention Harry gave the cat and migrated to Fleur, being needier than ever.

As Harry continued to observe Mufasa's hunting techniques, he became increasingly convinced his hypothesis was correct. The snow here was thick, fluffy and loud; there should have been no way for this massive cat to walk so silently that even he had not heard its approach. The cat also had powerful claws that seemed to rip through hide like paper; perhaps the claws were magically enhanced, as well? And there was the fact that the darkness did nothing to hinder its vision. Most cats had excellent night-vision, but it was especially prominent with the Wasteland Cat.

"Maybe it can see heat like a snake can," Harry mused.

"Perhaps," Fleur agreed. "It would certainly explain why he seems to be able to track prey from far away in the darkness."

It was about a month after they began travelling with the feline that Fleur and Harry encountered the first sign of civilization.

During dusk, Mufasa had found prey and was stalking towards it, Harry and Fleur following while covered in stealth charms. When they came closer, they realized they were looking at a giant furred animal - no, it wasn't furred, it was wearing furs. A human! Harry promptly canceled his stealth charms and called out to the cat.

"Stop! We need to talk to them. Don't kill him, please."

The human spun around and froze completely; though only his eyes were visible from underneath all the furs, Fleur could recognize his fear. The cat stared at Harry incredulously, as if to say 'are you kidding me?' before it huffed and slunk away into the darkness. Apparently the cats didn't like having their food taken away from them.

Fleur's eyes returned to the human - clutching a wooden spear with shaking hands - staring on at the retreating cat with incredulity. He turned back to the two sorcerers and bowed respectfully, but warily. He chattered to them in an unrecognizable tongue. Something similar to the Nordic languages? Icelandic, perhaps? Regardless, Fleur didn't understand a word he said.

Harry waved his hand over them to cast a translation charm. "Could you repeat what you said, please?" He asked in English, but to the hunter, he'd hear it in his own tongue.

"I am grateful for your intervention, friends," the man repeated. "You speak our language, yet I have not seen your likeness in the tribe. I have never met a man with dark hair before."

"That's because I've never been to your tribe and I've never spoken your language," Harry said easily. "I can do a little bit of magic."

An understatement, but the man's eyes went wide. "You're a shaman?"

"Or something similar where I come from, yes," Harry admitted. "We haven't seen human contact in months. May we join you and your tribe for rest?"

The hunter nodded quickly. "Of course. I will explain to them that you spoke to the cat and saved my life. They will welcome you."

Harry winked at Fleur as the hunter turned around and began to march back to his people. "Anyone can speak to the cat. I've observed they are intelligent enough to understand emotions and basic ideas. If you approach them without fear and with respect, I'm sure they'd be willing to converse with you."

The hunter glanced at him before looking forward again. "I am Stone. What is your name?"

"Harry," Harry introduced. "And this is Fleur."

"Harry?" Stone asked, confused. "In our tribe, we name people after things we find in nature. What does Harry mean?"

Harry and Fleur exchanged looks. "I don't know," Harry admitted. "But 'Fleur' means 'flower' in her native tongue."

"Ah, now, that I understand," Stone said with a satisfied tone. "Where are you both from? There is hardly anyone in these Wastes. In all my twenty-three years of life I have not met anyone outside our tribe."

"I suppose that is to be expected; I doubt many people can be fed in these parts," Harry said, and the man chuckled in affirmative. "We come from very far away. Warmer parts. Where we come from, grass grows on the soil - imagine tiny little leaves poking out of the soil without a trunk or branches - and rain, liquid water falls from the sky instead of snow. Although we do get snow as well."

"That must be a strange sight," Stone commented.

"Perhaps it is," Harry agreed. "How many people live in your tribe?"

"Three-and-ninety," Stone replied. "We have seen better days. About ten winters ago we saw the harshest winter in the past five generations. Many of our number perished, or disappeared in blizzards."

"You have my condolences."

"What happens happens. It is the reality of life," Stone sighed. "Although I suppose where you come from, you don't have blizzards?"

"Not like here, no."

"It would be nice, to go somewhere with more food," Stone said. "But we cannot simply abandon our ancestors and gods."

Harry glanced at Fleur. "What gods do you worship, Stone?"

"We worship the Lady of Winter, the Hunter, and the Sun," Stone said reverently. "The Lady of Winter is… cruel. We must keep her appeased unless we want another winter like ten years before. Of course, we must also be in favor of the Hunter so we can find food, and the Sun so we may find warmth and drive off beasts of the night. Some of our people also worship the Fisher."

"Interesting," Harry commented.

They continued hiking for two hours, during which Harry asked Stone all manners of questions. Stone also asked Harry questions, and after a brief discussion with Fleur, he decided it would be no harm in telling some of their stories to a tribe so isolated that it didn't even have warriors. Harry told them about very basic things that were common both to this world and their own world - if the existence of antler-less elks that men could ride on shocked Stone, then he was most definitely not ready for the idea of metal birds that could swallow men and carry them through the sky, only to vomit them back out once the journey was done.

Fleur squinted as she spied lights. As they approached, she found that they were small campfires formed around the perimeter of their camp. Their 'camp' was extremely basic and frankly depressing. A giant wall of ice and snow ringed around their camp, likely to block the harsh winds, and the 'buildings' inside the walls were made of fallen branches arranged like a tent and covered in foilage or pelt to keep the heat in.

"Pebble! Flake!" Stone raised his arm in salute to two more fur-clad men standing guard at the entrance to their camp. "I have returned, but only because these two people saved me from the attack of the Wasteland Cat."

"Ho, Stone," one of them rumbled. "And any man or woman who helps a member of our tribe is welcome here."

"Thank you," Harry said politely, though his gaze told him he would rather sleep in another igloo than in this settlement.

The three of them passed the two hunters on guard duty and into the camp. Their clothes garnered some strange looks; this tribe didn't even have leather, though it was understandable - the land was in no condition to build a tannery in. These people were truly little more than barbarians, brought together only by the fact that if they separated into smaller groups they would be killed off.

"You must come meet the elders," Stone said. "They are in charge of running our settlement."

"I see," Fleur said, wondering what the hell there was to even run in this settlement.

They moved over to a slightly larger tent on the far side of camp. Children and women peeked out from the tents, staring and whispering at the two newcomers. What were they wearing? Were they giants? Did that man have black hair? Stone ducked underneath the flaps of the tent and the two sorcerers followed.

Inside was a rather stereotypical setting; a campfire in the middle, and a group of old men and women lounging around it. They sat up wearily as they spied the newcomers. Stone removed his hood to reveal a pale, scarred face - ritual scarring, no doubt, they were too symmetrical - and shaggy blond hair.

"Elders," he said respectfully. "I wished to let you know, Harry and Fleur here saved me from a Wasteland Cat during my hunt. I would not be here if not for them, so I invited them home for a place to rest and a meal in their belly."

"I see," the oldest man said. He looked withered and ancient, but he was still probably in his forties, fifties at the latest. "I thank you for your assistance, my esteemed guests. Feel free to stay in our home as long as you wish."

"Thank you, elder," Harry said politely, but Fleur had known him long enough to recognize that tone. It contained a carefully masked undertone of disinterest.

"What are you wearing?" One of the elders said. He seemed a little younger than the others, and though he was old he was still relatively-well build. "That certainly doesn't look like hide."

"It technically is," Harry shrugged. "Firstly, it's leather, so it's been pickled and processed. Second, it's dragonhide, and dragons naturally do not have hair."

"Don't have hair?" The elder murmured.

"As I told Stone, we come from much warmer places where creatures that don't have hair can survive."

"I understand," the elder nodded. "What is a dragon, if I may ask?"

"You may ask. A dragon is a flying, fire-breathing creature of legends, with scales like a fish and as large as mountains."

"...and you say your cloaks are made from that material."

"Indeed."

"A creature of legends."

"Legends to most. Not to travelers like Fleur or I." Harry poked at his pocket, from which an annoyed Alduin poked out her head. The elder's eyes went wide, and he leaned in closer for a better look. Alduin coughed, plumes of smoke erupting from her mouth.

"Incredible," he murmured as the dragon clambered up onto Harry's shoulder and spread her tiny wings. "Is it in its infancy? You said they are as large as mountains."

"She can grow and shrink with the aid of magic," Harry said. "Though yes, she is still relatively young for one of her species."

"You must tell us more of your tales," the elder said with twinkling eyes. "I confess myself very interested. You see, I once found a 'ranger' caught in a snowstorm, and I rescued him. Ever since he'd told me his tales, I have wished to explore south… alas, my daughter has yet to find a man for herself and I must stay until she does."

Harry smirked. "Why do you think I travel? I would not let such responsibilities catch up to me."

The man laughed. "I am River, friend. It is good to meet you. Now, let us exchange tales and perhaps I can convince you to marry my daughter."

Harry rolled his eyes even as the man chuckled.

* * *

Ron and Katie stumbled through the Harad desert. Judging by the sandy dunes that dominated their landscape, they were up further north in Near Harad, a region similar to Arabia, than they were closer to Far Harad, which by all accounts was mostly jungle.

"Are you sure we can't use the motorcycle?" Katie whined. "Nobody's gonna see. There's nobody here!"

"Stop whining," Ron smirked. "You drag me to the beach all the time and you've proven to me that you don't even mind having sand in your bikini bottom."

"Yeah, because I can take a dip into a giant body of water where it will wash it away," Katie said irritably, as she re-wrapped a white towel around her head - though it was quickly turning mustard yellow. "Surely we can at least conjure camels."

"I suppose that's acceptable," Ron agreed, and Katie flicked her wand. The sand rose up into the general shape of a lumbering, bactrian camel, along with saddle and reins. Ron did the same, and the two camels kneeled down for its two creatures to hop on their back. It was much less comfortable than riding a horse, as they swayed and lumbered their immense weight over the sand, but a horse would fare badly in the sand and in the heat.

"Point me, north," Katie said, and her wand spun in the opposite direction from the sun. "Point me, Minas Tirith." The wand turned slightly to the left. So Gondor was in the northeast, then - meaning Mordor was directly north of them.

"I know Harry said not to cause any major timeline changes," Ron commented. "But wouldn't it be wiser to go out of our way to reduce Sauron's influence? I mean, the Mûmakil come from Harad, so if we made sure the Haradrim tribes didn't ally themselves with Sauron…"

"Yeah, I think that's better than sitting back and not doing anything," Katie frowned. "I can understand where he's coming from. This world has a bunch of factors that can overwhelm us in terms of both physical and magical power. The closest thing we had to a Tolkienesque threat in our own world was the Nundu."

"But it's all the much better if those same dangerous creatures don't ally themselves with the darkness," Ron finished.

"Exactly," Katie nodded.

They cast a bunch of lightweight charms and speed charms on their camels so they moved much faster. The desert was pretty, but it did get old very quick, especially with all the burning heat and monotony. Although Ron did appreciate the way Katie's shirt clung to her curvature when she removed her coat, realizing it was heating her up more than not. Ron cast a slightly over-powered cooling charm on her.

"Thanks," Katie smiled at him. "The damn sun was burning through my own charm, I don't know how, but this place would have killed me as soon as I landed here if not for magic."

"It's not a problem," Ron said lightly. Once Katie's face was averted, his gaze descended onto her breasts and the way her nipples poked out.

They'd ridden for another two days. This shit was getting real old, but after thousands of years at life they had learned to grow patient. They continued to ride, the transfigured camels never getting exhausted, until Katie squinted. "Hey, Ron? Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"

"I think so," Ron agreed. Although the heat caused shimmers on the horizon, he was certain it wasn't a mirage. "Those looks like buildings."

And so it was. Another ten minutes of hard riding led them to a town surrounding an oasis. It was a relatively large oasis as far as they went, but the population was small. A small population could be sustained at an oasis for a significant period of time, but if the inhabitants were wasteful or large in number, the water supply could be used up faster than it could be refilled.

Ron and Katie saw a few dark-skinned faces peer out from the windows as they approached. They didn't seem unfriendly, so Ron only cast a few detection charms around the perimeter before leading their camels through the dusty streets. The outside edge of the oasis-town was surrounded by a dense formation of tall palm trees, like a line of guards, likely protecting against the occasional dust-storm and the heat as well.

"Is there an inn?" Katie wondered, squinting her eyes and watching the translation charm decode the foreign writing as she watched.

"Doesn't seem like - no, there it is," Ron pointed. They tethered the camels alongside others next to the inn, where there was a feed trough and water for them to drink. A young boy, ten or eleven, was raking out the much that the camels left on the dusty ground. "Hello, young man. Are you in charge of the camels?"

"Yes," he said warily. "Can I help you?"

"By doing what you usually do, my friend," Ron said, digging into his 'money pocket' and tossing him a silver sickle. Sure, a sickle might not have the standardized value as in their old world, but it still held its weight in silver. The boy looked shocked that such a coin had sailed through the air into his outstretched hands. "Take care of them, you hear?"

"Of course, sir," he stammered.

Ron and Katie turned back around the front to enter the inn. It was a simple enough design, and cozy. The innkeeper blinked once at Ron and Katie's pale faces as they removed their towels from their heads. Ron wasn't entirely certain if there was a significant amount of racism around these parts - hopefully not, but they were able to pay, so it wouldn't matter.

"Hello, sir and lady," the innkeeper said. "Are you looking for a room?"

"We are, good sir," Katie flashed a brilliant smile. "We've been in the desert for some time, now. We'll also need to catch up with the gossip, I imagine."

He chuckled. The good-natured man gave them a room and a bath on the house (since business was slow, he said) and Ron was determined to leave him a nice tip. They went up to the second floor - the buildings were generally no taller than that so they remained below the canopy of trees and thus the upper levels did not get ravished by heat or sand - and found their room. It was simple but clean, and the heat was minimized in here; it was cozy, in fact.

"This is nice," Katie said, as she kicked off her boots. She opened the window and began to toss all the sand outside. Ron kicked his own boots at her but she only stuck her tongue out. Ron whined and Katie rolled her eyes before removing the sand from his boots as well.

"Thanks, Katie," Ron beamed.

"You're so lazy sometimes," Katie said.

"You know, growing up with magic and getting so advanced at it to the point you can merely will it and make it so, it's difficult not to get lazy."

"Thank goodness for my Muggleness, then," Katie sighed. "My mother was never one to tolerate laziness."

In truth, it was difficult to remember her parents. While Katie was magical (and a powerful magical at that) and thus had a lifespan of well over two hundred years if she ate healthy, got regular medical check-ups and regular exercise (which she had on good authority wizards never did), her parents had a lifespan of about eighty years, and had died long before the end of Katie's first life. Since, thousands of years passed and while she'd grieved their loss for a long time. However, when she tried to remember them now, she couldn't really come up with anything, and ended up feeling more confused than anything.

"So," Ron said. "When do we go Balrog-hunting?"

"Where will we even find Balrogs? Except for in Moria," Katie said.

"Why not Moria itself?"

"Because Gandalf won't be reincarnated and we have no idea what that could result in," Katie shrugged. "I honestly don't know the significance of white robes, but…"

"I hate white clothes," Ron declared.

"Yes, because you look like an idiot in them and you _always_ spill food," Katie nodded.

"How do I look like an idiot with the color of my clothes?"

"It makes you look like a mannequin with a wig."

"Ha-ha, very funny, another joke about my skin tone. Didn't you attend all those civil rights rallies in America and get arrested more times than you could count?"

"I did, prat, at least until you and Harry burned down my world in nuclear fire."

"Please, that world was asking to be destroyed and you knew it. That place was a capitalist nightmare. Harry's people were starving on such a constant basis because of unchecked pesticide usage and unsustainable fishing practices by foreign, private entities that cannibalism was punishable by a minor fine; my government only managed to avoid getting outright usurped by private corporations because my military was still bigger than their collective private armies."

"Yeah, seriously. I was lucky I didn't get caught by private police instead of federal police. I knew a few people who did…" she shivered.

"A wealth gap so massive that the top 0.1% owned 95% of wealth. People were afraid to commit suicide because their children would be sent to work as slaves in their stead, only with unsolvable debt. You're really telling me that turning all of that into dust was cruel?"

Katie didn't speak. As much as she and Fleur hated what the boys did, they hated the world itself even more. A million times more. It was a dying world. People weren't having kids - well, until they were forced to. The planet's health was failing, the people lost their minds, became mindless drones in an effort to avoid the emotions they were constantly bombarded by, like pain or misery or hatred. Ron and Harry called it a mercy killing.

The scary thing was, Katie had never found herself able to form a decent argument against it.

"Katie?"

Katie looked back at Ron and shook her head. "Nothing. I was just thinking. Anyway, now that we've been riding for a few days, I want to take that bath and go to sleep."

So they did. The tub was just large enough to fit two people, and Katie reveled in the sensation of her muscles relaxing and the grime being scrubbed off her skin. She dressed in only her underwear and had a brief moment to admire the sensation of the sheets - she'd expected worse from such a technologically backwards world - and fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**T.A. 1956**

Fleur packed mounds of snow into a wooden transfigured tub the size of a shoebox. They upended it, and began piling them beside Harry, who was arranging into a dome, the straight and angled blocks used to hold each other up. As the dome rose to the height of a man (at least, a man who lived their entire life in a frozen wasteland without proper nutritional balance) Harry began arranging the less and less regular shapes so they leaned on each other to prevent the dome from collapsing inwards.

Fleur handed him the last piece, the keystone, and Harry patted into the final opening. Meanwhile, Fleur masterfully arranged the hole she'd ended up digging in the snow while making bricks, into the entrance for the igloo. Harry helped her create an arch of snow that covered the entrance to prevent it from being buried in and suffocating the occupants while they slept.

All the while, the northerners watched in fascination. Eventually, Fleur and Harry popped their heads out of the new construction and stared at the tribe. "And that is how you build an igloo," Harry said, casting a warming charm on his fingers. "Not a permanent home, mind you, the inside will melt until the walls become structurally unstable so long as you stay inside it. But useful for hunters if they get trapped in bad weather."

"Incredible," the elder Fish murmured.

"We didn't invent it, a people called the Eskimo did," Harry shrugged, then turned to Fleur. "Or was it the Inuit?"

"Both?" Fleur shrugged back.

"You have aided our tribe greatly, wanderers," the chief elder, Water, said. He was a little pompous and the wanderers in question had long since decided they didn't like him. "This, and the 'goggles' you have introduced… they will be of great use to the tribe." He held up a pair of ivory goggles, with thin slits where the pupils would be; a type of ancient sunglasses used by arctic tribes.

"I know," Harry said simply.

"Are you certain that you wish to leave?" Fish, the man who'd proposed a marriage between Harry and his daughter Scallop, asked.

"We're wanderers, like you said," Fleur smiled.

Yeah, that proposal hadn't gone down well. Scallop was headstrong, stubborn, and had insulted Harry to his face more than once. Not that it bothered Harry, though it was amusing the way Fleur had snarled like her beastly alter ego and threatened to rip into Scallop's guts and choke her with her own intestines. Since then, the poor elder had decided to keep his newest friends and his daughter as far apart as possible.

"We can't stay in one place forever. We're not bound to any gods," Harry said. "We need to explore and learn of the world."

"Very well," Fish said sadly. "And here I thought you and Scallop were finally getting along."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Never going to happen, old man."

Fleur didn't mind Harry having sexual relationships with other women or men. After all, they had been together for several thousand years; it was difficult for the two of them to find something new to do, especially with the amount of libido Fleur had in her younger days due to her Veela nature. However, the one thing that Fleur did take offense to, was Harry having partners who weren't attractive enough for her standards - made her seem unattractive by association, she said. And Scallop, being part of a malnourished and heavily inbred tribe, did not meet those standards of beauty.

"Can we perhaps offer you a gift before you leave?" Water asked.

Harry snorted. "What do you have to offer to us?"

Water let that slightly degrading comment slide - a surprise, since he was anal about that sort of disrespect in his presence most of the time. "Food, perhaps? A cloak made by our best tailor? Name it, and you shall get it."

"We can hunt our own food," Harry said dismissively. "And the cold doesn't bother us that much."

"I understand," Water said, seeming a little disappointed.

"Well, I guess we'll be off now," Harry said. The people in the conversation looked around rather awkwardly, before Fleur snorted at Harry's surprising lack of people skills and they began to leave.

It had only been a minute before the sound of hurried footsteps could be heard behind them.

"Master Harry! Mistress Fleur!"

The two sorcerers turned around to find Wolf, a seventeen-year-old youth who Harry had taken under his wing for the past two years for his magical affinity. It was small and barely noticeable, but it was there, possibly as a result of being the current shaman's grandson. Harry and Fleur had taught him guardian magic, which was self-explanatory; all sorts of magic to protect from the cold, darkness and evil, as well as magic to nourish and ensure health. The redhead approached, whatever was visible of his face tinged red.

"Well, hello."

"You decided not to say goodbye to the person you'd miss the most?" Wolf asked accusingly.

Fleur laughed. "You flatter yourself, don't you?"

Wolf shook his head in exasperation. He then held out with a gloved had a small item. "This is our farewell gift to you. My wife and I made it together."

A bracelet made from plant fiber braided into cords, adorned with ivory beads. They had carvings etched into them with incredible dedication and precision one couldn't usually expect from bone needles. Images of wolves, bears, Wasteland Cats, huntsmen, fishermen, the shaman wielding his feathered staff, and images of their deities. The deities' image was supposedly used to bring about good fortune by channeling a little bit of the deities' power into the wearer, and such beads were considered sacred. Neither Harry nor Fleur needed protection from the cold or fortune on the hunt, but the gesture was touching.

"Thank you, Wolf," Fleur said. "And you said your wife made it as well? Thank her too, from us."

"I will. And it was the least I can do," Wolf replied. "You taught me magics that have never been known to this tribe, and will help the tribe long after I die. Something like that cannot ever be fully repaid."

"It was nothing," Harry said dismissively. "Not doing so would be a waste of magical talent. But thanks."

"If you return, you will always be welcome," Wolf said firmly.

Fleur smiled. "Thank you, child. We'll return eventually. Won't we, Harry?"

"Sure," Harry shrugged. Knowing them, though, it might be a few centuries until they did.

* * *

After that farewell, Fleur and Harry truly left. As with the time they first arrived on this frozen land two years ago, they met nobody as they hiked through many miles of snow-covered land. As the approached the mountains, the snow gave way to soil - albeit cold and hard - into a more tundra landscape. Grass managed to grow here, and they encountered populations of deer-like creatures. They must be related to the shaggier elks further north.

"Alduin," Harry said. "You hungry?"

Alduin poked her head out from Harry's breast pocket. The creature was magical enough that it could go long periods of time, even decades if it wished, without food. After all, Slytherin's basilisk had survived a millennia without eating. The black dragonlord leaped out of his pocket, expanding before their eyes to the size of a large car, unfurling her leathery wings and taking off into the air.

The dragon lunged at a group of deer that were milling about. They noticed the dragon, and froze in terror. Only a few managed to break the spell and flee before the dragoness was on them, bathing them in green fire, green the color of the killing curse. Harry and Fleur continued walking as the smell of charred meat - and it smelled a little like bacon cooking, actually - mingled with the smell of ash.

Alduin had received some of her basilisk heritage, and the original plan was to have petrifying eyes. However, Fleur argued that those eyes were more of a liability than an advantage; Harry downgraded it into petrifying terror. Those with a strong enough will or motivation could break free of Alduin's death glare, but it would also mean any allies that accidentally looked into her eyes would not be turned into stone or drop dead.

The next several months went by in a blur. There wasn't all that much to report, except that they were simply making their way south to the Lonely Mountain. They hiked up one of the unnamed peaks in the Grey Mountain range, made easy with the usage of warming charms, lightweight charms, and bubblehead charms that gave them a supply of oxygen-rich air. The scenery, untarnished by the development of industry, was truly beautiful. Harry's camera was brought out once more.

It was during their hike down that things got a little more complicated. Harry got bored and created hyper-realistic snowmen, and when he overpowered the animation charms he accidentally created a sentient species that ate ice and shat snow and reproduced to create little snowbabies. Fleur could only shake her head in exasperation. A long time ago, creating life from nothing was believed to be one of the impossibilities of magic, but after so long, they were creating life by accident. Well, traditional animal life had to come from somewhere, right? Magic was just as good an explanation as any other.

Harry, channeling his lackluster paternal instincts, wanted to abandon the population of snow-people before they got dragged into creating a functioning society for them. Fleur, though, was a more responsible person - always had been - and denied Harry completely. Every society needed a leader, though, and Fleur knew how to do that. She transfigured a beautiful female sculpture from the snow, gave it greater intelligence than the other normal snowpeople. In a process similar to creating a sentient painting, she gave the Queen, whom she named Gabrielle after her little sister, a selfless personality and a little magic to protect her people.

The snowmen were friendly creatures, especially since Harry and Fleur were their creators - less like parents and more like Gods, actually. It was their twentieth night as guests of the Snowfolk, in their surprisingly comfortable beds made of snow, where Harry and Fleur lay, that they discussed the implications of what they'd actually done.

"As far as we know, Arda and everything within it was sung into creation by Eru and the Valar, essentially what we would call divine entities," Harry said. "They created the races of men, elves, dwarves, et cetera. But we, foreign entities and not quite Gods, came here and created a new intelligent species by complete accident."

"Do you fear reprisal from the Valar?" Fleur guessed.

"A little. Although it is unlikely because frankly, they haven't intervened in the history of this world for a while now. The last time they did must be, what, the destruction of Númenor? And that was only after the Númenoreans tried to sail to the Undying Lands. It's also not as if we've created dark creatures. They're naturally friendly, they're so far up their own asses in veganism that they don't even eat plants, and we're their Gods, meaning they'll listen to us. They won't cause any harm to the other races."

"If you're certain," Fleur murmured. "I've gotten rather fond of them, even if they were accidental creations."

"I have as well," Harry admitted. "They're not like the other kids we had. They're not needy, they're respectful to their parents…"

"Indeed," Fleur smiled. "We should give them a few more means to protect themselves, though. They're still made of regular snow, and except for the Queen, they're extremely fragile. If the other races try to eradicate them…"

"What, so you want me to give them magic, like with the Queen?" Harry asked.

"No, I wasn't thinking that. It will bring unwanted attention if there's a needlessly high magical presence here," Fleur said. "No, I propose giving them sturdier bodies. Whether this be by charming the snow, or by creating a life-anchor that they ingest."

"That sounds like a better idea," Harry mused. "A life-anchor, hm? And I'm guessing you're proposing making it out of ice?"

"It's only fitting."

"If not for the fact that they crap it out."

"Please, Harry. If I recall correctly, the Inuit and Eskimo people, thes who live in permanent winter, have several dozen words to describe different types of ice," Fleur harrumphed. "I'm sure they'd be able to tell the difference between waste product and a holy orb that determines their existence."

"You're making this a lot of work for me, you know?" Harry complained. "You're talking about a magical anchor that provides life-energy to abiotic organisms that can allow them to mimic the functions of life, including growth and reproduction. And you need to make sure that their children also pop out with an anchor of their own…"

"It's not as if you've never done it before," Fleur snorted. "You created a race of dryads for that endangered species sanctuary that poachers wouldn't stop sticking their noses in."

"Yes, but trees are already living things with working methods of growth and reproduction," Harry said.

"I'll do it myself, if you're so averse to it," Fleur muttered, rolling over to face away from her husband. Harry chuckled.

* * *

Over the next three weeks, Fleur dedicated herself to creating a better form of life for the snow-people. It took her several trials, but she was able to come up with an anchor that could convert the ambient magic of the atmosphere into its own; this would be used for reproduction and ensuring the race survived. It would also give them resilience against heat and blunt force; they people wouldn't crumble like the average snowman at the slightest of shocks, nor would they melt if they went a little further south. It gave them close to the same amount of resilience as an average human.

Meanwhile, Harry was busying himself with organizing the quickly-developing society of Snowfolk. He named the currently under-construction palace 'Niflheim' (and like hell he was going to let Fleur change that) and decided to create a succession system based on the legends of Arthur and the sword in the stone. He started to forge a sword of ice, but there was a small problem, namely that forge and ice were mutually exclusive.

He had to settle for creating a special, magic-infused block of ice, and whittling it down into a blade. The enchanting process left the blade tougher than steel, though unfortunately nowhere close to the strength of goblin-steel. He'd never managed to get the knowledge of goblin-smithing in all his lives, those secretive buggers. Once he was done, a rune-chain carved into the side of the bastard sword would keep it indestructible to anything but the hottest flames. Frankly, the only things that could produce enough heat for that would be Alduin and fiendfyre, so Harry wasn't too worried.

He finished the hilt and crossguard, simple but pretty, and picked up the finished blade. He put it to his lips, and whispered softly, in the Tongue of Trees, in the Words of Truth. " _Let only the worthy wield this sword_."

The universe acknowledged his request with a sound that mimicked a soft sigh, or a whispering breeze through a copse of trees. Delicate ribbons of raw magic wrapped around the sword to protect itself from evil and darkness. As soon as the process was done, the sword weighed significantly more in Harry's hand. He grunted, but was still able to carry it without much trouble. Apparently he was worthy, but only barely.

His next task was to create a simple stone pedestal in the throne room, and drop the sword into a specific gap he'd created, until the sword sank halfway down its blade into the floor. A few negligent flicks of his wand later, a throne made of stone and ice rose behind the pedestal, overlooking the hilt of the sword. There. Now his part was done.

Fleur was unimpressed.

"You spent the past three weeks making an ice sword and naming the palace," she said flatly. "You couldn't have just helped me with creating the life anchor?"

"It's important," Harry argued. "By creating an effective system of succession centered around one's capabilities as a leader, it forces the best people to lead the race."

"And what if someone just decides not to use the sword to rule his people?"

"They won't if I create some mythology around the sword."

Fleur only sighed and shook her head. "What else have you accomplished?"

"Er. Nothing, really. Although I've been teaching the Snowfolk a few words from the languages of our home, so they can get started on creating their own."

"I see." Fleur narrowed her eyes. "If I hear the Snowfolk use a curse word once, I will not be pleased."

Harry swallowed.

Fleur introduced her life anchors to the Snowfolk. They were wary, despite having warmed to the two 'deities' over the course of a month and a half. In the end, the Queen decided to lead by example and ingested the first anchor.

A bright glow surrounded her body, increasing in intensity until even Fleur and Harry were forced to avert their eyes; when they were able to open their eyes again, a tall, beautiful young woman stood before them, looking more lifelike than ever before and surrounded by a muted glow, much like the elves were rumored to be. The Queen looked at her own hands in wonder; the white snow had turned into smooth, pale skin. Her eyes, once merely sculptures, became true eyes with piercing azure irises; her hair was silver, much like Fleur's, and flowed down to her hips.

She looked to Fleur. "…mother?"

Fleur's eyes widened in shock, and turned to Harry to demand an explanation. However, she didn't get far before the Queen of Snow rushed into Fleur and embraced her. Fleur gasped slightly, before awkwardly squeezing her back. Harry only watched on in amazement. After all, the Snowfolk had not had proper voice-boxes or lips or teeth or tongues before, so they could only vocalize basic sounds and sounded more like animals than humans. Now, though… he was impressed, truly. Even his dryads had not been able to speak properly. But Fleur had evolved snowmen into anatomically modern humans in just three weeks.

"Who… who taught you to speak?" Fleur asked, even as her eyes glanced to Harry.

"Harry did," the Queen smiled. "He taught us many words. Including a few bad ones."

Fleur glared at Harry, but the infuriating man shrugged. "It was going to happen eventually."

"How do you feel, Gabrielle?" Fleur asked with motherly concern. She was fitting into the role quite well, Harry thought with a snort.

"I feel… alive," the Queen said softly. "I can see many colors, and feel the wind on my skin. I can hear your voice properly. It feels good."

"I'm glad to hear that," Fleur said with a relieved smile.

After that, several dozen bright flashes of light lit up the mountaintop. With the Snow Queen's magic, there shouldn't be too much that could harm them - a dragon might, but frankly there was no reason for a dragon to attack, considering there was no wealth in this kingdom so far. And what would orcs possibly gain from attacking Niflheim? It was hardly a strategic location.

Fleur was not very good at water or ice magic, considering her nature as a fiery demon, but she knew the theory of it well enough to pass the knowledge along to the Queen. If only Ron were here - Ron had a powerful affinity to water magics, and his mastery of water was unparalleled. Harry occasionally helped out though, and though he didn't have as much control as Ron did, he did have the most latent magical power out of the four of them by a long way.

In the next two months, the population of the Snowfolk doubled, as Fleur put her energy into creating more of them. Harry taught them how to protect themselves, and the Queen, as well as the Priestesses that Fleur had created, were given training in magic. After all, swords and shields, especially those made of ice or snow, would be no good if they were attacked by dragons or other magical beasts. The others also began to train in the way of war. Each of the Snowfolk soldiers received a spear and buckler. Walls were constructed strategically and hardened with magic. Watchtowers were built along the walls armed with scorpions in case siege trolls ever decided to visit.

Without the need to gather food, the Snowfolk turned to trades and crafts. A large majority of feudal populations were peasantry, but that class was practically eliminated within the Snowfolk nation due to their unique diet. This gave rise to large groups of artists, sculptors, smiths, healers, scholars, and warriors.

Harry tried to ignore the fact that he was getting worshiped even more than the time he'd been Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived. He wasn't _adverse_ to attention, not after so long and even being president of the USSR as well as a popular actor playing himself in a world where _Harry Potter_ referred to a book series, but it did make him slightly uncomfortable the way they were singing praises about him, literally. Oh, well. At least Queen Gabrielle, First of her Name and Protector of the Snowfolk seemed to be just as infatuated with him as the rest of them, with the added bonus of having the most delicious, minty-cool lips - both pairs - he'd ever encountered.

Great thing was, having been created by Fleur with no input from himself, Gabrielle was one of the few Snowfolk that actually _weren't_ a son or daughter of his, so he didn't even have to use the prepared Oedipus complex excuse yet.

Fleur, though, seemed to revel in the attention. Though Harry had created the Snowfolk in principle, Fleur was perceived as the greater deity because she was the one who ascended the Snowfolk to the state of living they were in. As the mother of the Queen, she was also given a royal status as well. Fleur was described as the most beautiful woman to exist - and to be fair, she was certainly one of the most beautiful, if not the most - while Harry was described as merely 'rugged and devilishly charming'.

Alduin's ego seemed to be inflating to dangerous levels as the Snowfolk myths developed and the great, black dragonlord was included. He was given the role of 'the World-Eater' because no mythology was complete without an apocalypse. Supposedly, once the chains that bound Alduin as Harry's mount were broken, the dragon would devour Harry and eat the world in its hunger, thereby bringing the end of time. It was a pretty cool story, all things considered. Certainly better than some of the dumb Boy-Who-Lived propaganda bullshit that he got.

Fleur wanted to stay and take care of her people. She was in full goddess mode at this point. Harry frankly didn't give a shit. They ate snow, for God's sake, they would survive anything short of global warming. They already had a mythology, a language, and a rudimentary alphabet after having existed only for about three months. They had a society (courtesy of Harry, obviously) and while trade wasn't big yet, Harry believed that barter systems, then currency, wouldn't take that long to develop once Durin's folk settled in these mountains and later the people of Dale founded their lakeside town. These people didn't need any more coddling.

Of course, this disagreement led to a rather interesting argument between Harry and Fleur that would likely end up on the Snowfolk mythology as well.

"You were the one who created them, Harry," Fleur growled, the low, reverberating noises created not by her but rather her fiery, demonic alter ego. "Are you so unreasonable that you will not spend a few years with them, nurturing them, helping them get on their two feet? Your own children?"

"These children seem to be awfully advanced for their age," Harry replied coolly. "You yourself made sure of that. They now also have means to protect themselves, if anyone even bothers to challenge them for this high-altitude shithole in the first place. I came here to learn, not spend my time dawdling about teaching people what they already know."

"You've never been responsible, have you?" Fleur's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Would you have abandoned Paige and Marcus if you could? Do you only keep Alduin around because of her tactical advantage? This conversation has seen a long time coming, Harry. But this time, you are not going to walk away. Do you understand?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Fleur's flames crashed into him. A maelstrom of fire, reminding him of something Dumbledore did to drive off Inferi so long ago, coiled around itself like a serpent and charged at Harry. Harry, of course, gave a lazy wave of his wand for a conic shield to shimmer into existence in front of him; the flames struck the shield and charged over it, trying to swallow Harry as it regrouped behind him like air passing over an airplane.

"We can speak about this like adults, you know," Harry said dryly.

"I always speak! You never listen!"

By now, most of the Snowfolk had arrived to the scene; the warriors stood their ground as best they could, even as they shook from the knowledge that none of them could hope to match the power that the two warlocks controlled. Others fled. The Queen watched warily; the destruction was angled away from their new settlement, but it might spill.

"You're scaring the kids," Harry said drolly. "Aren't you the irresponsible one?"

The flames stopped. Although… it continued to whirl around Fleur like a deadly halo. She was like an angel, at least if angels didn't particularly care whether you were dead or not before they whisked you off to heaven. Her form shimmered; her angry yet beautiful face was replaced momentarily with a cruel visage, a cross between a harpy and a voracious fire-demon; tongues of flame became feaethers, sprouting over her flesh and creating demonic wings.

Holy _shit_. She was fucking _angry_.

Harry barely had time to raise his arms over his head and conjure triple-layered shields before he was struck by Fleur's outstretched talons. He was literally thrown off the top of the mountain - it felt like getting hit by a bloody freight train - and he allowed himself a peek. Fleur was chasing him through the air in all her hellish glory, the air around her warping due to the immense levels of heat she was generating.

Harry gave another brief moment to wonder what the hell he'd said wrong before Fleur crashed into him. She snarled, and Harry panicked, and then the two of them crashed into the snow like a meteorite, significantly lower in altitude than they had just been.

"Harry…"

"…Fleur?"

She'd calmed down enough to no longer appear in her demonic form, but her aquamarine eyes were still dull with leftover rage.

"What happened to you?"

It was a conversation they'd had many times. Every time, though, Fleur had broken off halfway through leaving Harry confused, and after so many times, annoyed. It got to the point Harry became annoyed as soon as Fleur mentioned that phrase; eventually she stopped bringing it up at all, even if her facial expression undoubtedly signaled she was thinking it. Today, though, was the first time Fleur had gotten so _angry_ ; Harry pushed away all of his irritation and exasperation to adopt a perfectly neutral expression.

"Will you explain what you mean by that?"

"It means…" Fleur took a shuddering breath. Nobody went three thousand or so years without fighting, and fighting massively; all three other pseudo-immortals knew full well as a result that Harry could do whatever the fuck he wanted and none of them could stop him, power-wise. "It means you don't seem empathetic anymore. You don't seem _human_ anymore. Do you care about anyone? Do you ever consider anyone else more than just… an extra, or background noise?"

There was such raw, unprocessed emotion in Fleur's voice that Harry stopped breathing briefly. She was _scared_. _Of_ _him_. Holy shit. How had he missed that? Was this why she never brought this up, ever? And Ron treated him with uncharacteristic caution whenever he was even slightly upset?

"I'm going to have to think about that," Harry admitted slowly.

Fleur grunted, her dissatisfaction evident. "Do come up with a good answer."

* * *

**T.A. 1956, July**

"Did you hear?" Katie crowed, bursting into the tavern with a wicked glee on her face.

Since arriving in Minas Anor a year ago, there was not a single patron of the tavern that did not recognize Katie's face or voice. The tavern was the man's haven - a place to get away from nagging wives or rowdy children. It was not a place for women, even one who dressed in trousers and was uncharacteristically loud and confident such as Katie. More than once, a few men had tried to get her to leave. Katie refused them in the rudest manner possible.

Nobody could do anything about it because Katie was frankly the best damn brawler that had ever graced this tavern and its three-hundred-year-old history. More than once had she been accused of cheating in drinking contests, and more than once had she been forced into a drunken brawl, and more than once had she expertly broken jaws and fingers and noses with her fists, elbows, forehead with enough force behind each strike that she may as well be a human battering ram.

Since then she'd gained the respect of Gondorian soldiers who most often frequented the establishment. A few had tried to flirt with her - if they weren't immediately turned off that idea by the steely look that the giant, redheaded man gave them, that is. If one did catch her fancy, she did occasionally spend the night with him - but while the man came out in an ecstatic daze, Katie herself seemed rather disappointed in the skills of the man she'd bedded.

"What happened?" Ron sighed. His drinking partner, a certain grey-hamed wizard known in these parts as Mithrandir, looked up at Katie with a mischievous twinkle underneath his bushy eyebrows, one that reminded Katie of a certain bearded headmaster.

A jaunty wave of Katie's hand produced extensive privacy wards surrounding their table. The Grey Wizard's eyebrows rose in surprise as he examined the magic weave itself into an intricate net. Katie sat down next to the old wizard and grinned at her husband.

"Harry created a new race of people from snow," Katie said in a conspiratorial whisper. "The thing was, he was just trying to animate the snowmen he'd made, but he overpowered it… he _accidentally_ created life!"

Katie wondered if Mithrandir planned to pick up his jaw off of the floor even as Ron sighed in exasperation and ran his palm over his cheek. The past year he'd been growing a well-kept beard in the Gondorian fashion. "How did he manage to _accidentally_ create life? I understand he's the magically strongest of all of us, but still…"

Perched on the brim of Mithrandir's hat, Fawkes the phoenix looked more amused than anything. He let out a beautiful trill full of amusement and curiosity.

"That is a very dangerous magic that you friend is dealing with," Mithrandir said gruffly. "All life on Arda was sung into creation by Eru and the Valar - until now. Has your friend considered the consequences he might experience from the very creators of this world?"

"Obviously not. Like I said, he did it on accident," Katie giggled. "Apparently Fleur created a life-anchor for them that gives them a more true form of life. The Snowfolk, as they call themselves now, have settled in the Grey Mountains surrounding their capital, Niflheim."

"Niflheim," Mirthrandir hummed. "What does that mean, I wonder?"

"It means 'World of Fog'," Ron explained. "A myth from our homeland. It features a realm of primordial ice, darkness and cold. I can see why Harry would have found that name fitting." He turned to Katie. "I assume Harry wanted to bail and Fleur wanted him to take responsibility for his accidental creations? Is that the cause of what we felt yesterday?"

Mithrandir blinked. Yesterday's magical tremor was caused by an _argument between two friends_? He had felt this event clearly, having been startled awake from his sleep by what could only be described as a sudden tension in the air, an angry pulse of magic through the atmosphere. He had no doubt that any magic-sensitive being in Middle-Earth had felt it. Just how powerful were Ronald and Katherine's two friends?

He knew the two of them were significantly more powerful than the two sitting with him. Ronald and Katie were warlocks - powerful, but mortal - while Fleur had 'veela' ancestry which supposedly gave her a great boost in strength as she matured, as well as affinity to elemental flame; Harry was the 'Master of Death', which sounded ominous, and both Ron and Katie were very vague about, but Mithrandir gathered that this Master of Death business was what gave Harry such immense power.

"How much stronger are these two compared to the two of you?" Mithrandir asked cautiously. If either of them turned to darkness, they might become a Dark Lord to rival or perhaps even triumph over Sauron.

"Fleur was about two-and-a-half times stronger than myself or Katie," Ron shrugged. "We figured out that much. Harry, though… we're honestly not certain."

"But power isn't everything," Katie winked. "Even Harry can be defeated with a treacle tart."

Mithrandir chuckled, recalling the unforgivably sweet pastry that Katie had made for them once. He didn't know this Fleur or Harry so well yet, but if they were similar to Katie and Ron, then he had no doubts about their allegiance to the light. For all the gruff exterior Ronald tried to project, he was a good man at heart who would not easily be swayed by Sauron's false promises. Ronald and Katherine would be very useful allies to have - and for Mithrandir, a man who was immortal and thus did not have true friends beyond the elves, possibly a pair of good friends.

Even if they did curse more than drunk dwarves.

From above him, Fawkes playfully pecked at his eyebrows. Mithrandir grumbled as he tried to shoo the bird away. Even the bird had an attitude! Katie was giggling, wrapping her arms around her waist and clutching at her sides, as Ron sat with an insufferable smirk. Then again, he'd never had _anyone_ treat him with such insolence before - it was refreshing.

It made him feel young again, helped him forget the dark thoughts that lingered at the back of his mind. His worry, his terror, his anxiety was all smoothed away in that moment at the sight of Ronald and Katherine's smiling faces and the beautiful birdsong of Fawkes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:  
> Hello all. This is the sequel to Through the Veil. I should let you know that this one is less humor-oriented than the first story. I know not many people liked the deviation from humor around Ch 11/12 of Through the Veil (and looking back, I didn't either) so I've decided to shift the focus rather than trying to force myself to be funny.  
> Update schedule is fairly irregular (as with all of my works). I write whenever I feel like it, and that obviously fluctuates. I'll try to update at least once a month, but I can't promise anything. Also, while I am a big fan of The Hobbit/LotR, I am not the most knowledgeable of Middle-Earth lore. If you do find minor irregularities, please try to ignore them - any major irregularities, though, I'll do my best to fix.


	3. Chapter 3

**T.A. 1957, February**

"Oh, really?" Fleur's voice floated from the surface of the mirror. Katie frowned, before using a sleeve to wipe at a smudge that kept bothering her.

"Yes," Ron said from beside Katie. "Since the two of you are undoubtedly capable of causing all sorts of chaos in Middle-Earth on your own, we've elected to explore other continents in Arda."

"Including Valinor?"

"If we can eventually find a way to smuggle ourselves there, then maybe," Ron said. "But until then, we'll settle for the other continents. It's too risky for the two of us to be defying world-creating entities. You two might survive, but we two most assuredly won't."

"You'll take samples of everything, won't you?" Harry asked.

"What do you think we've been doing all this time, while you've just been sitting around with your subjects and being worshipped?" Ron snorted. "We've taken the DNA of just about every Middle-Earth organisms and even geological samples we've come across."

"Good, good," Harry murmured.

"Tell us about your end," Ron suggested. "What's been going on with Elsa of the Grey Mountains?"

"Elsa has taken to her queenship with vigor," Harry shrugged. "Her magical power is through the roof, currently twice as powerful as either myself or Fleur were expecting with no appearance of stopping anytime soon. When she matures she might end up at least as strong as one of you."

"What are we, side characters?" Katie muttered.

Fleur smiled fondly at her. "You'll never be replaced, Katherine. Nor you, Ronald - although you _do_ have six siblings, so you'd technically be easier to replace than Katie."

"I thought I told you to marry Gabrielle instead, Harry," Ron complained. "She was a lot nicer, for one."

Harry snorted. "You and I would have both tired of niceness a lot quicker than Miss Casual Violence," he said, affectionately glancing at Fleur who rolled her eyes.

"Katie, Ron, you should probably visit the Wardrobe before you set out into the unknown," Fleur said, returning the conversation to what it was before. "You never know what kind of monstrosities you might discover in this new continent. Could meet Dark Elves. Someone as powerful as Galadriel, but more than willing to kill you, would not be good."

"Definitely not," Katie agreed. "We'll visit the Wardrobe before we set off. Do either of you need anything?"

"I think we're set," Harry replied. "We're not planning to dive headlong into the shadows, after all. We won't be taking on anything above our weight class."

"There isn't much above your weight class," Ron said, and Harry shrugged.

"You never know. Sauron at full power could probably beat me."

"But you have no intention of letting Sauron return to full power, are you?"

"Obviously not. Plus, if anything happens…" Harry patted a curious amber locket on his chest, a silver snake curled into the shape of an S. "I'll have good old Tom to help me out."

"Alright," Katie nodded. "I think we'll portal over to the Wardrobe tomorrow. After that, we'll be heading south. Maybe we can use the Blackbird? I'm not certain how the Valar will react to us flying a giant metal contraption at mach twelve."

"I'm sure you'd be able to outrun whatever they send after you," Harry snarked.

Fleur struck his arm. "Hopefully they won't try to erase your existence. If you're worried, you can just take the Nightmares." She was referring to the magical species of horse that they had created in a medieval Earth once upon a time.

"I think the Blackbird will do just fine," Ron said uncaringly. He'd had so many suicidal moments that thoughts regarding being obliterated by cosmic entities hardly worried him anymore. "I don't really feel like riding anymore, not when we've been doing it for two years now and I haven't found it in the slightest enjoyable."

"It's almost expected of you," Harry shrugged in response. "In fact, Fleur and I are collaborating on creating a species of horse for the Snowfolk."

"Another species of horse? Why do you need another species?"

"Because there's no food here," Harry replied. "We're building a species that won't have to feed as often, or can survive on scraps, so the Snowfolk don't have to take their horses on regular field trips to the Withered Heath for grass."

"Why haven't we created new species, Ron?" Katie muttered.

"We can always do so later," Ron replied. "We're going to be here for a while."

"Before you leave, thank Gandalf for the tea he sent us," Harry called. "That was delicious, really. I wish I had some good biscuits as well, but the tea was brilliant."

"We'll do that," Katie smiled.

Ron and Katie paused as they heard a musical chime, beautiful but sounding urgent, from the other end of the mirror-connection. Harry barely gave a glance back while Fleur looked slightly nervous. "What's that?" Katie asked.

"Warning bells," Harry replied. "We might be under attack. We'll have to go now."

"Do you need help?" Ron offered.

"Thank you, but it's alright. We don't even know if the enemy is a threat, and even if it were, Alduin should be able to handle it." Harry stood up. "Good speaking to you two again. See you soon."

"Take care," Fleur added, before the connection blinked away, leaving Katie and Ron sitting in front of a normal, polished mirror. The two warlocks looked at each other and stood up, stretching their limbs and their joints popping satisfactorily. Katie moaned in pleasure as her spine crackled.

"I'm worried for them, despite what they've said," Katie commented as they exited their room. "Angmar still exists, and it's still powerful. It's possible that an Angmari army had stumbled across the newest civilization in the north."

"Possible, but it's I doubt it's anything larger than a scouting party," Ron commented. "I don't see anything of interest in the far north for the Angmari, not when the Dwarves haven't settled those mountains yet."

"How big is Niflheim again? Just over a thousand people?" Katie sighed worriedly. "I doubt they'll go extinct, not while Harry and Katie are watching, but an enemy that's large enough might do big damage to a settlement of only that size."

"Have some faith," Ron grinned, patting her arm. "They'll do just fine."

Mithrandir, naturally, was found in the archives of Minas Anor. Although the Istar would become a total badass once he was guiding Thorin's Company or the Fellowship, right now he was a somewhat shy, and reserved wizard who still questioned his own courage and his suitability as an advisor. As a result, he was more a bookworm than warrior-mage, who shied away from attention and crowds.

Katie bounced to him, and tapped his shoulder.

"Argh!"

Ron laughed as Mithrandir almost fell out of his chair with shock. The wizard in question only gave a halfhearted glare at Katie, before clutching at his staff. "How do you walk so quietly?" He grumbled, as he picked up a few scrolls that had rolled off the table when he jumped. "You always seem to be able to sneak up on me."

"Just a few tricks we picked up a long time ago," Katie smirked.

"It shouldn't be possible to conceal your presence so thoroughly," Mithrandir muttered, though he already seemed less annoyed than before. "What can I do for the two of you?"

"Harry wanted to thank you for the tea you sent them," Katie said. Mithrandir smiled under that bushy beard, and inclined his head. "Also, we've decided to go forward with the plans we discussed with you a week or so ago. We'll give ourselves a few days to pack, then we'll head south, and cross the seas."

Mithrandir's smile disappeared and morphed into a worried frown. "I know I have already told you, but I must emphasize - I do not know what you would find in those lands. I am Maia, yet I still know not - there may be creatures too powerful for either of you to handle."

"It's possible, but I'm sure we'd be able to handle it," Ron replied.

"We do have a few tricks up our sleeves, too," Katie said mischievously.

"I have no doubt that you do, being the strangers to this world that you are," Mithrandir sighed. "You must be careful, do you understand? Both of you are powerful, but neither of you are immortal."

"Ooh, good one. I'll have to add that to my next book, _Wisdom from Gandalf, Edition Two: Wait a Minute, Haven't I Heard This Before?_ "

Ron rolled his eyes. "He's trying to be nice, Katie."

"Yeah, he's also being repetitive."

Mithrandir sighed. These two had a very carefree air, and he wondered - truly - how they'd managed to survive long enough to come to this point. He simply shook his head and looked at the two. "You'll both be leaving on the morrow, you said?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps you'd care for a game of dice, or cards? It will be a long time for me without any competition in either of those things."

Katie smirked. "Are you volunteering to get your arse kicked? Because I don't hold back, you know. Not even for children or geriatrics."

Mithrandir sighed yet again as Katie sniggered.

* * *

**Niflheim**

"What's going on?" Fleur said as she approached the Queen.

"Orcs," she replied grimly. "Legions of orcs. I doubt they were intentionally seeking us out, as we are unknown to them. However, we are unknown to them no longer. Perhaps they saw the lights of our torches, and decided to raid our settlement to restock on food and supplies. Regardless, they do not seem to be here to parley."

"How many of the enemy?" Harry inquired.

"Eight hundred at most, my scouts have reported. About two hundred of them are warg-riders."

"Seems easy enough," Harry shrugged. "They'll make decent target practice for your winter magic. How are you feeling on that front?"

The Queen swallowed. Technically, she was only a year old. "Nervous."

"Don't be. You have plenty of backup. Not only do you have the Life-Mother and God-King physically standing beside you, you also have the World-Eater lounging in your guest bedroom."

The Queen gave a slight snort of amusement. The World-Eater Alduin when grown to full size might be a terrifying figure, but most of the time she was content to laze around and sleep. Harry flicked his wand from his sleeve, then summoned his war-staff from the Wardrobe. It was a sleek, smooth item, six and a sixth feet of giant sequoia wood, the rich red hues polished and engraved with runes written in platinum thread.

"You did not mention the use of a staff before," the Queen stated.

"Then let me give you a practical lesson. While wands are much more suited for fine movements and refined techniques, the mage's war-staff will provide you with much more raw power. It is to be used on a large scale, hence the name. It is rarely seen outside the hands of a qualified siege wizard, whose job is to bring down fortifications and wards as quickly as possible. It also causes significant magical drain, making it less economical than just the wand. The wand is inserted into this slot, here-" Harry demonstrated, pushing his holly superwand into a small gap at the top of the staff, "-and the staff channels much more power than the wand can by itself without burning out."

"And you will strike down the enemy with that?" The Queen asked.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "No. That's your job. This is a test of your capabilities, not mine. I'm just making sure none of the enemy escape to report to their superiors of this location."

"I… yes."

The small army of orcs began to hike up the slope, their footsteps mostly in sync and thundering up the hill. They slammed the butts of their polearms against the snow-covered ground. They struggled slightly as they marched in the less than ideal terrain, but their morale was high. By all appearances, the Snowfolk were small in number and should be a relatively easy enemy to defeat. Indeed, of the thousand or so of the population, only a quarter were professional soldiers.

Of course, they did not know of the magical entities standing atop the hardened walls of ice. The Queen, Fleur, and Harry stood on the parapets and watched them approach. The orcs came to a halt just outside the range of the conventional bow and arrow, not that the Snowfolk had any bowmen yet.

After a tense moment of silence, they roared in unison, slamming the butts of their weapons against the ground repeatedly. Combined with their ugly visages, Harry and Fleur understood why the orcs were feared as much as they were in this world. However, that would never be enough to deter the two of them; both of them had experienced more than their share of terrifying things.

Harry raised his staff, pointing towards the sky. Nothing seemed to happen, and the Queen was going ot inquire what Harry planned on doing, when she was suddenly lurched forward by a particularly violent gust of wind. The wind picked up as it swirled around the entire mountain; dark storm-clouds began to circle around the peak. The orcs and Snowfolk both watched tensely as the God-King of Niflheim funneled clouds into a vortex.

The orcs' chanting stopped entirely once the wind began whipping about with enough strength to lift snow from the ground and into the air. The hurricane turned into a blizzard, with a thick, impenetrable wall of ice and snow surrounding the battlefield. It was bad enough that any orcs or wargs that tried to retreat through it was pushed back into the makeshift arena.

"There is no escape now," Harry murmured.

Occasional flashes from the midst of the iron-gray clouds lit up the battlefield, followed by the rumbling of thunder audible even over the howling winds. Wargs panicked at the cracks of thunder; they were much less like the monstrous beasts and more like dogs in that regard. Harry doubted the orcs trained them all that well anyway and relied on the beasts' natural aggression for the most part. He glanced at Queen Gabrielle of Niflheim.

"Ready to rock and roll?"

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing. Just… go ahead. Feel free," he said, gesturing at the now less enthusiastic enemy. "I've no doubt that just about any magical entity on this planet will feel your magic, but Fleur and I will remain here for a while longer so you don't have to worry too much about envoys from Mordor or whatever."

The Queen nodded once, sharply, and stepped forward. She really did look like Elsa, didn't she? Did Fleur subconsciously lean towards that Disney imagery when she was building the Queen of Ice? Anyway. Harry returned his eyes to the battlefield as the Queen raised a single hand, looking out towards the orcs.

"What are your intentions here?" Elsa-Gabrielle asked.

Harry snorted, earning himself a withering look from Fleur. As if they didn't know that already.

The orcs apparently did too, although only a handful of them were smart enough to lie about it - resulting in a bit of a heated discussion among themselves. They argued for a full minute before they settled on a conclusion, appa- oh, no, wait, they were arguing again. Harry pressed his fingers to his forehead. Dunderheads, the lot of them.

"I can see that your intentions are not peaceful, in any case," Gabrielle said with a sigh. "Disappointing, but unsurprising. None of you will return to your masters to report of this place, however. Prepare yourselves."

"Wait!" One of the orcs called, his eyes widening, and then his skull was pierced by a thin icicle bursting out from underneath him.

The orcs descended into chaos as blades of ice began flowing in the air like a serpent, twisting its mass into indiscernible shapes and whittling away at the orc army. The white petals were stained black as they flew; the blood of orcs turned the snow underfoot into mush. It took them a quarter of their soldiers before one particularly large and ugly sergeant whipped the others into position, occasionally literally.

"Form ranks!" He barked. "You're going to march up that hill and you're going to fight! Remain here and I'll kill you myself!"

The orcs began to march, creating a shield wall on the flanks. Surprisingly effective against the barrage of razor-sharp ice crystals, even if a few did slip through the gaps. Of course, Gabrielle had not yet mastered control over individual blades of ice, so the ones that did make it through only managed to cause superficial damage. The warg-riders fanned out in a massive encircling move - although it was a risky gambit, considering the distance they'd have to travel and the quality of terrain, if they succeeded then Niflheim would be flanked.

"Fleur?"

"On it," Fleur responded. Her battle-armor shimmered into existence as she willed it from the Wardrobe with a single thought; dark steel plates covered red dragon-leather; her helmet was almost midnight-black, wreathed with a gold band and beautiful gold plumes erupting towards the back of it. A spear formed in her hands, seemingly made of gold except for the blade itself, the smoky ripples of which suggested it was hammered from Damascus steel.

"Guards, to me!" Fleur roared with a voice that shouldn't be possible coming from a woman of her size. "Repel the warg-riders!"

The soldiers formed two ranks of bristling wall as they quick-marched to the defensible points. After almost ridiculous time spent training under Harry, their movements were completely fluid and practiced; they reached the eastern and northern gates, the only other points available to access Niflheim without jumping over the walls (which were high enough to deter even wargs).

The orc infantry also began to split up, diverging into two columns down the middle. They marched at an angle from each other, making it more difficult for Gabrielle to target all of them at once. While orcs in general were very stupid, they were bred for war and nothing else; they were not idiots when it came to fighting. Gabrielle decided to target those in the east, since there was no western entrance and the eastern group was close to both the southern and eastern entrances. A small contingent of guards remained defending the southern entrance; Gabrielle should be enough to make up the difference.

The winds picked up once more, billowing snow up into the air, forcing it to clump together. Giants made of snow, far less refined than the Snowfolk themselves but many times larger, rose up. A single step of its massive body shook the ground; the two groups of orc infantry paused for a brief moment to stare at the monster. The Queen mentally directed the giant to attack the western group while she herself fought the eastern group; the giant immediately hobbled over to the target, trying to keep its balance on its misshapen limbs, causing the earth to quake with each step it did so.

Gabrielle sent longer, more powerful lances of ice hurtling at the orcs, strong and large enough to pierce the shields they held. For such a martial race, it was surprising that they never seemed to grasp the concept of smithing. Their equipment was of such poor quality it could probably be shredded like paper; slag-filled iron probably poured into molds to be mass-produced rather than forged. They'd endured well enough against flying shards of ice only as large as one's thumb, but they didn't do much against javelins thrown much faster than should be possible.

Meanwhile, the defenders of the western gate, along with Fleur, were driving back the warg-riders. It was only possible because Fleur was magically slowing down the enemy; if not for that, it would be very possible that any warg would manage to crash into the ranks and open a gap, even at the expense of their own lives. Once that was done, the other riders would capitalize on the gap and charge through.

The northern gate was not faring so well. The ranks that held the gate were bulging slightly at the center as manic wargs plowed into them with no regard for its own safety. One of the guards retreated back to the palace to get some much-needed assistance.

The only other magical entity that was available, was the World-Eater Alduin.

The lazy dragoness was lured outside with the promise of plentiful food. The black dragon, the size of a house cat, scrambled on top of the northern gates and watched the assault dispassionately. The guards looked desperately towards the end of their world, who showed no signs of doing anything. Then, she jumped off, took several flaps to raise herself into the sky, and _grew_.

On the other sides of the settlement, Harry, Fleur and Gabrielle all felt a powerful pulse of magic rush over the entire hillside and likely out towards the rest of Middle-Earth, if not all of Arda. So much for keeping a low profile. The magic was familiar to Harry and Fleur - it felt somewhat like the sun; primordial, extremely powerful, and extremely destructive.

Alduin had grown to well over two hundred feet in length from crown to tail; the wingspan was possibly of similar length. The wargs took sight, and immediately tucked their tails between their legs and began to flee, recognizing the apex predator of all apex predators before anyone else. That didn't save them. As the orcs were thrown off their mounts, Alduin swooped in, wind whistling over her massive wings, and opened her maw to produce a storm of malicious green flame.

Snow evaporated completely as the wargs were burned into jerky. Alduin soared high again, before setting her eyes on the snow golem and the hundred or so orcs still fighting with it. She dived, and crash-landed into their midst, trampling several dozens of the orcs to their gory deaths and knocking all others off their feet; the snow golem collapsed from the force of it. Gabrielle watched in horrified awe as Alduin mauled a dozen orcs with talons as long as swords and swallowed a dozen more with a single snap of her massive jaws.

"That's my girl," Harry said smugly.

The mere glare of the dragoness petrified the orcs; that made it much easier for her to reach out casually and pluck them off the ground between her scorched and blackened teeth. Her spiked tail, occasionally flitting out distractedly much like a cat's, accidentally destroyed ranks of orc infantry. Once she'd had her fill (which, at this size, amounted to several hundred orcs) she decided to decimate the remainder through green fire.

"I wish the corpses remained preserved, but oh well," Harry sighed.

"Fields of the Dead?" Fleur's eyes narrowed at him as she returned, her helmet under her arm. "I told you the last time that I didn't want any foul magic specifically near our home."

"It's not foul magic," Harry dismissed. "It's intent-based, much like the wards you drew on the palace itself."

"That doesn't involves _corpses_ being used as a defense."

"It's a passive defense."

"I don't care. It makes me uncomfortable, and it should make you uncomfortable too." Fleur glared at him, daring him to push further. Harry didn't. Like he said, the corpses were all destroyed anyway, so he couldn't do what he wanted regardless.

"Well," Harry changed the topic. "Now that we've successfully defended our newest nation-state, we'll need to worry about possible shady characters coming to enquire about the massive magic pulse that Alduin sent out while showboating. I suppose we'd have to wait a few months in case anyone comes, but after that, do you want to go to Erebor?"

* * *

That day, several beings felt the pulse.

In Gondor, Mithrandir only shook his head in exasperation, chalking it up to another one of Harry and Fleur's antics (he wasn't entirely wrong).

Towards the east, Saruman, who had then been meeting with the Dwarf-Lords of the Iron Hills, had felt the pulse in the midst of court, leaving him disoriented for a moment. What was that? It was fire-magic, no doubt, but from so far north and so powerful? He knew the Withered Heath was a breeding ground for dragons, but this was far too powerful a pulse coming from any dragon in existence. Such magic could only come from the first dragons, but surely none of the distilled dragons that existed nowadays.

Lady Galadriel of the Golden Wood was unfortunate enough to be scrying in her mirror when the pulse occurred. Her Sight was disrupted by the pulse, ripping her out of her visions and leaving her confused, dazed, and with a throbbing headache as she was helped to her arms by elf-maidens who had heard her cry of pain. Her husband, Lord Celeborn, heard of this and went to assist, and found a still-confused Galadriel who, in her addled state, returned to her _very_ old habits of swearing like a sailor, and giggled at Celeborn's approach, asking him in no uncertain terms if he'd like to try to have another baby (the elf-maidens promptly ran awy, red-faced, from the courtyard). While Celeborn appreciated the sentiment considering his wife was platonic even for elf standards, he was worried about her, and about the potential threat in the north. He too had felt the magic, far more powerful than anything else he'd ever felt in the recent centuries, and such a display felt almost _challenging_ \- a statement to the ruling lords of Middle-Earth. Would it become a threat in the near future?

King Thranduil certainly thought so. As close to the Grey Mountains as he was of all the Elf-Lords, he had recognized the dragon-magic for what it was, and dragons were generally no good; vain, selfish and greedy. He had no way of knowing that Alduin was merely vain, but like Celeborn, he recognized the power as a display of sorts, or a challenge. Fearing that the entirety of Mirkwood might be burned down as well as the remainder of Middle-Earth, he gave a call to the other elven settlements to gather their most experienced warriors on an expedition to the Withered Heath.

The Witch-King of Angmar was having similar thoughts. The orcs under his command had been decimated. He knew no more than that, but of that much he was certain of, considering the sudden disappearance of several hundred connections to his soldiers in his mind. As the Witch-King cared nothing for their deaths, the severing of the connections did not hurt, only acting as a notification that they'd died. Being so aligned with shadow and necromancy as he was, the Witch-King tasted the powerful life magic infused with fire; it had caused him nausea as it passed. Dragons, as a general rule, were more aligned with death than they were with life; so what had created that pulse?

Finally, a single necromancer in the south of Mirkwood spasmed as the magic washed over him briefly. The weakened spirit retreated to the depths of Dol Guldur as it tried to recover. The magic, though fire-aligned, differed so greatly from the fires of Mount Doom or the Ash Mountains to be comfortable in any way. It certainly wasn't created by anything or anyone he knew; he'd tasted Morgoth's magic before, vile and horrific even to his standards for Morgoth strived to unravel all that could be created; that meant a new player had joined the game. But whom? His mind suddenly flashed back to the four stars that had fallen to the ground two years ago. It _must_ be. But just how powerful were they, if they blatantly announced their arrival and were not decimated by the Valar for disrupting their _perfect little_ creation?

The Necromancer vowed to redouble the efforts of recovering his favorite ring.

* * *

**T.A. 1958, January**

Queen Gabrielle of the Snowfolk was not sure what to think of this particular development.

Harry and Fleur had ended up leaving almost half a year ago now, since no envoys from other nations had arrived in six months since the attack by orcs. It had turned out that this was not due to fear, or indifference, but because of simple bureaucracy. Even the tree-huggers like elves apparently had pointless meetings and debates and the subject of their 'dragon-hunting' expedition was one of them. Thus, almost a year later, an army of veteran elf warriors had arrived on Niflheim's doorstep, with two Istari in tow.

Gabrielle had long since decided that she didn't like Saruman. Or Thranduil. Both of them seemed _offended_ at Gabrielle's lack of recognition of the two of them on sight, as if she hadn't been born a mere two years ago. The wizard known as Gandalf seemed nice enough, and he recognized the Snowfolk - now that he mentioned it, Gabrielle recalled from Harry and Fleur of a grey-robed wizard called Mithrandir, who had been in touch with their two friends before they decided to jump continents.

Thranduil's nose was permanently stuck up into the air, while Saruman (at least in Gabrielle's mind) appearing to do his best to keep his sneer from showing. Harry had told her once that Saruman was one to watch out for, and Gabrielle now wholeheartedly agreed with that sentiment. They were now convened in the Throne Room, whereupon Gabrielle strode to her throne of ice and sat. She stared at Thranduil, elf guards, and the two wizards.

"So, what do you want?" She asked bluntly.

One of the elf guards glared. "You would not offer a seat to even the King of Mirkwood?"

Gabrielle glared back. "Strange. It appears to me that you and your people have marched, armed, to my doorstep, pushed yourselves into my home, and are now expecting me to cater to you as I would welcome guests."

Gabrielle could hear Thranduil grinding his teeth from all the way across the room. Good thing elves had perfect teeth, or he'd be spending a fortune on dentists.

"We are here, as we have cause to believe that a massive threat has arisen in this region," Saruman said imperiously. "A threat any novice in magic would have felt about a year ago. You yourselves have appeared out of seemingly nowhere in very recent years. Perhaps there's a connection?"

Gabrielle could feel a little of her (technically) mother's hotheadedness coming through. "And if there was? How do you plan to stop us?" She replied in the most condescending tone she could manage. Judging by the looks on Thandy's and Sarumankey's faces, it was working pretty well. "You yourself said it was a massive threat. You think you and your toy soldiers can defeat it?"

"Watch your tongue, woman," one of the elves (probably the same one as before) barked. "You are not cooperating with the King of Mirkwood - and he takes insubordinance _very_ seriously."

"I must be mistaken - surely I didn't just hear a threat to my body in my own home, where I am at the heart of my power?" Gabrielle channeled as much inner Fleur as she could, putting steel into her voice. The elf recoiled slightly, and she grinned inwardly in satisfaction. "I shall answer several of your questions, as I am feeling generous, and we the Snowfolk cannot live in isolation forever. Speak, and I may answer."

"Where did you come from?" Saruman barked.

"I came from the Snow," Gabrielle said simply, gesturing around her. "Two years ago, the Life-Mother and the God-King, two warlocks of immense power, visited the Grey Mountains. The God-King created bodies of snow and animated them, but in his raw strength he created a sentient race - us. The Life-Mother, unwilling to abandon us to a lesser form of life, created for us improved bodies and the method to reproduce. They have left about half a year ago, unfortunately, but they have taught us what we need and more to run a nation."

"And the magic we felt the previous year was caused by your God-King and Life-Mother?" Saruman asked.

"No. That was caused by their daughter, the World-Eater Alduin," she replied, and felt satisfaction as her guests' faces contorted ever so slightly with… nervousness? Fear? She'd take whatever she could get, anyway. "The World-Eater is a black dragoness of immense proportions, bathing her enemies in green flames. Each of her claws is as long as a man's sword, and very gaze freezes men and orc alike in terror so that she may easier kill them. She is so powerful that the God-King had to create a chain from his very soul so that she would not go on a rampage - and when the God-King dies, and the chain breaks, Alduin will grow and devour the world in her hunger."

"The Valar would not allow that to happen," Saruman snorted and spoke in absolute certainty.

"Oh?" Gabrielle raised a shapely eyebrow. "You should watch your tongue, wizard. Alduin does not take insults to her pride very kindly, and she is sitting right behind you."

The guests whirled around so quickly it was comical, and they were indeed greeted by a dragon the size of a small truck. The red eyes glared balefully at the guests, who had all paled. The dragon had not been there when they entered, and the massive creature had somehow managed to enter the throne room undetected to the sharp ears of the elves and the magic of two wizards.

The scaled menace huffed, perhaps with amusement, as it examined the newcomers. These people were new - the scent of them likely interested her. One elf soldier snapped out of his daze and drew an admittedly beautiful blade, and the others flinched at the sudden rise in tension.

"Put that away!" Gabrielle snapped. "Do you have a death wish?"

The poor elf shivered in his greaves as the black dragoness' head swerved to face him, glowing red eyes reflecting his terror. She didn't get _physically_ larger - but as if she fed on the elf's fear, her presence grew, dominating the room and casting an impossibly large shadow. The eyes burned in fury, and a low growl began eminating from the bottom of her throat.

"Do as she says," Thranduil hissed. The sword was put away, and the tension eased slightly.

"While Alduin remains in our home as a guest, I am not her mistress." Gabrielle spoke coldly. "Any further threats to her life may irritate her until she does something I cannot prevent. Think before you act."

"This meeting was an utter waste of time," Saruman huffed. "We should leave."

"Please do," Gabrielle said dryly. "I have better things to do than parley with a group of idiots whose collective ego could feed the World-Eater for ten thousand years."

"You dare-!"

Gabrielle's patience ran out and she stood up. "I may be young, much younger than any of you, but firstly, I am powerful, and second, this is my home. Should you not leave Niflheim right this moment, I will _not_ hesitate to lace up my shitkickers and give you a good demonstration of just how hard I can kick."

The audience was stunned into silence by the crude language coming from the Queen. Saruman snorted, muttering something uncouth under his breath, as he left. Thranduil said no more, his face set in stone, and simply spun around to leave. His guards followed him.

"And don't come back unless you return with an apology!" Gabrielle called after him. "Gandalf, you may stay, if you so wish."

"Why, it would be my pleasure," Gandalf said, with a hesitant smile. He seemed to have greatly enjoyed the altercation, although he didn't want to admit that.

"I have heard much about you, Gandalf Gray-Hame. You were friends of Ron and Katie? I am unfortunately yet to meet them myself, but they are close friends of my mother and her husband. Should we retire to my office? I can serve you drinks…"

"That would be lovely, my Queen," Gandalf smiled. "I also have a few questions I am burning to ask…"


	4. Chapter 4

**Meanwhile**

"My spidey senses are tingling," Harry murmured.

"Shut the fuck up," Fleur smacked him hard on the head. "Seriously, _shut up_. You say that _every single time_ I get undressed. And it's not as if I can't see your 'spidey senses' anyways!"

Harry gave a smirk as he opened his legs just a little bit wider. Fleur pointedly did not look at him, instead shrugging on her silk shirt and her thick, warm overalls on top. Erebor was not a volcano as far as they could tell, and it could get a bit chilly in its depths.

"Get dressed."

"Not until you look at me."

"I'll never look at you until you get dressed, you pervert."

Harry sighed, rolling his eyes and getting up on his feet to do exactly that. "Fine, then. Yesterday, we found the Arkenstone. Now there's literally nothing more to do here. You said you wanted to leave a parting gift for the dwarves that will eventually come visit. What did you have in mind?"

"I want to carve an iconic scene from an Earth religion, like the Last Supper, into stone," Fleur said, gesturing to the far end of the great dining hall. "See how they would interpret the single scene, accompanied with maybe a single line of explanation."

"What about the crucifixion?" Harry suggested. "Odin's hanging? Kronos devouring his children? The aliens building the pyramids?"

"Aliens didn't build pyramids, Harry, you know that. It was a cooperative effort between paid laborers and Egyptian wizards."

"What's not to say _we're_ aliens?"

"We _are_ aliens, you dork. On Arda at least."

"That means we're practically obligated to prop up a sham of a democracy infested by lizard-people."

"Harry…"

"Yes, Fleur?"

"Be silent."

Harry shook his head, wondering why Fleur _still_ hadn't learned to appreciate his humor over thirty-something hundred years of time together. He did some light reading while Fleur began to transfigure the far wall of the dining hall into a precise and artistic collection of statues. While it was still in its infancy, Harry could make out two figures, one of which was man-sized and the other was much larger. A dragon, perhaps? With all the dragons he'd encountered, though, the novelty of such beasts were disappearing quickly.

Fleur continued to work for a few more hours, humming to herself all the while. Harry wondered how she managed to remember so many different tunes, from start to finish, as he listened to an entire album's worth of Led Zeppelin as he did some light reading. Fleur had finished the approximate image in about an hour and a half, and now she was just working on the precise details.

"Harry, can you get me the Iron Man suit?" Fleur asked. "I want to put it on Tony, here." She gestured to a perfect stone replica of Robert Downey Jr. in a suitably heroic pose.

So she was carving out an Iron Man sequence? "Sure," Harry shrugged, as he opened a portal to the Wardrobe and willed the House-Elves within to bring him the Mk. II armor. It was the simplest and one he was least attached to. Although Harry had attempted to make it as close to authentic as possible, it was still somewhat bulkier than depicted in the films. So many machines and components did not fit into each other that easily.

Soon enough, with the telltale _pop_ of apparition, the silver Mk. II armor appeared in Middle-Earth, having been flung out of the portal. Harry cast an _arresto momentum_ with his fingers before the armor skidded along the surface of the floor and got scratches all over it. He carefully levitated the suit over to Fleur, who smiled at him. "Thanks."

"No problem," Harry replied as Fleur dismantled the suit and began working it onto good old Tony. He went back to reading (Machiavellian's _The Prince_ , something he'd been meaning to read for about twenty lifetimes and had never bothered) while Fleur polished off her work.

"So, what do you think?" She said after a moment. Harry stood up and went to inspect the work.

Iron Man was standing defiantly against a water-wyrm that dwarfed even Alduin at her current full size. Churning waves surrounded the beast in exquisite detail, even the froth and the subtle undercurrents. The beast itself was similarly detailed, individual scales carved with incredible technique that could have only come about after centuries of practice. The beast had one eye on one side of its head and three on the other.

"'The greatest tinker of Men, Iron Man, stands against the beast Leviathan'," Harry read the steel plaque just behind the armored statue of Tony Stark. "Did you just rip off Worm?"

"I did," Fleur admitted shamelessly. "I may also be ripping off the Simurgh in the near future."

"As long as we're in a world where we won't be sued," Harry shrugged.

"Do you think the dwarves will be impressed by titanium-steel alloys?" Fleur asked.

"Is that the only reason you chose to use the Iron Man suit?"

"Maybe. I know that the dwarves are master smiths, so I wanted their completely unbiased opinion of more modern technology," Fleur shrugged. "I realize that titanium-steel alloys have nothing on magical metals, like goblin-steel or Mithril, but it's still an impressive feat."

"I bet I could do better anyway," Harry muttered.

"I'm sure you could, but you'd need the best materials you can find," Fleur said. "Mithril first and foremost. I'm sure you could plate it on top of steel or something of the sort."

"Perhaps," Harry grunted. "But steel is an invention from centuries before we were born. We need something befitting our status as space-age warlocks. I'm interested in Adamantium, but that obviously doesn't exist in this world, and I reckon I can do one better."

"Dragon-steel?" Fleur suggested.

"Hardly a revolutionary concept, but a useful one. I'm sure I can get Alduin to cooperate with that…" and as he usually did when this topic was brought up, Harry began mumbling to himself about his grand designs. Fleur chuckled to herself and turned away, knowing Harry would be invovled in his little soliloquy for a while. Instead, she opted to distract herself with her newest trophy.

She pulled out a rough, uncut stone from her pocket that seemed to glow with unearthly power. It looked like a supernova had gone off inside the stone, and the lights swirled within like magic. Though she'd used a high-powered _gemino_ charm to replace it, the result just wasn't the same - it was duller, smaller, and didn't have that same sparkle - although the fake was still beautiful. For all she knew, it could be magic; she could detect just enough of it that she was reasonably certain of it. Harry was still helping her work out just how to cut the stone, to make it fit on Ravenclaw's Diadem and still have as much as possible left over, to create a pendant or something similar.

Their next destination was going to be Mirkwood. This would be their first encounter with the immortal denizens of this world, the Firstborn. Perhaps if they made a good impression, they might be able to learn a few secrets from the elves; healing was one area they were reputable in, having saved Frodo from the wound of a Morgul-blade; Harry would undoubtedly be interested in learning smithing techniques from them, too. Of course, making a good first impression with Thranduil would mean they'd also have goodwill from Galadriel, Elrond, and Cirdan the Shipwright, all of them undoubtedly learned in many fields.

"So, Harry," Fleur said, and Harry looked up at her. "Will you help me make cut the Arkenstone now?"

"Of course. I have nothing better to do," Harry shrugged. "Dobby. Please summon my diamond saw from the Wardrobe…"

* * *

**T.A. 1958, March**

A legion of a hundred elves marched along the River Celduin. Towards the north, the Lonely Mountain stood solitary. Their trip to the Grey Mountains had… not gone well. Thranduil ground his teeth yet again at the memory of being verbally thrown out of Niflheim by the Queen of Ice. He did not desire war, far from it; his realm was being threatened by darkness as it were, and he didn't need more enemies on top of that, much less a _dragon_ to deal with. Furthermore, the population of the so-called Snowfolk numbered just higher than a thousand, hardly a threat on their own.

The faint layer of frost upon the soil was disturbed only slightly by the elves' inconsiderable weight. It was starting to get warmer. Perhaps Thranduil would have had a greater advantage in that… confrontation (for there were no other words to describe such an aggressive parley) if he'd hailed during summer? No, likely not. The Snowfolk were sustained by sorcery as much as they were sustained by the snow.

"My King!"

"Haldir?" Thranduil turned to look at his trusted lieutenant. "What is the problem?"

"There are two unknown figures approaching our column," he said crisply as he continued to march alongside Thranduil's elk. "They do not seem to be armed. Perhaps they are wanting to join us for protection?"

"Are they men?"

"At least one of them are, my King. But the other, a fair-haired maiden, radiates a glow much like the elves." He continued to march, not even bothered by the marching they'd been doing since dawn, not even breathles. "What are your orders?"

"If the maiden is an elf, then it would be unwise, not to mention dishonorable, to leave her alone without protection," Thranduil said softly. "Let us make camp. It is almost noon, regardless, and the soldiers should perhaps like a meal."

"Yes, my King," Haldir bowed slightly, somehow managing it mid-step. "I shall greet the elf-maiden and her follower."

"Very well," Thranduil said.

The column halted and began to set up camp. They would not be building fires, that was unnecessary for it was still light. The soldiers simply divided themselves into rings of ten each, their respective companies, and began to eat. Their serious mood disappeared and they began to joke and laugh. Thranduil remained upon his elk. It would not do for a King to dismount to greet guests.

He ground his teeth together again, reminded of that humiliation with that Ice Queen.

"Lady Fleur, Harry son of James," Thranduil noted with amusement that Haldir did not use an honorific for the Man, "you stand in the presence of Elvenking Thranduil of the Woodland Realm."

Lady Fleur, who was indeed fair-haired as Haldir described (perhaps even as light as his own hair) curtseyed expertly, while the black-hooded man nodded stiffly. Thranduil's eyes narrowed at him, as did Haldir's. Thranduil chose to take a deep breath and turned to the elf-maiden instead. When she looked up at him, he was surprised.

She looked… young. She lacked the characteristic high cheekbones that elves often had, and was not nearly as tall as the average elf. Still, she did indeed glow, ever so slightly, like an elf would, and she was beautiful even by elf standards. Her skin was flawless and her figure was taut, and if Thranduil did not detect the _age_ in her eyes, he would have guessed her to have barely reached adulthood. To say nothing of the tiara that she wore - the silver was wrought into the shape of an eagle, and two stones glowed, somewhat eerily, with an inviting white light that he'd never seen in a gemstone.

"Elvenking Thranduil," she spoke in a musical voice with an accent he could not quite place. "It is an honor to meet you. Your reputation, as great as it may be, does not do you justice."

Thranduil swallowed subtly (he was quite certain nobody had caught that) and nodded in return. "The same to you, Lady Fleur. From whence do you hail?"

"I hail from the far north, my King," she said. By Valar, he could listen to her speak all day. "My retainer and I have been traveling for some time now. I had thought to visit your kingdom, having heard the reputations of its splendor; to have found you on our way was quite the pleasant surprise." She was difficult to read, but the last part contained a hint of surprise; she was telling the truth.

"How long have you traveled, my Lady?" He asked.

"Decades," she said cryptically. "A few months ago, we stopped on the peak of the Lonely Mountain. If you have an opportunity, you should do so as well. The view is simply breathtaking."

"I will take your word on that, Lady Fleur," Thranduil acknowledged. "We are returning to Greenwood. I take you and your… servant, would like to join us? It would be safer for you."

The man snorted, and Thranduil exercised all his restraint not to strike the man down where he stood; at the very least, the glare that Lady Fleur sent his way was _smoldering_. Her polite, mysterious smile returned when she looked at him, though. "Your offer is too kind, my King. I will gladly join you on your return trip."

Thranduil allowed a slight smile to grace his lips. "Excellent. Haldir?" The elf in question snapped to attention. "Lady Fleur, I'm sure, would like to find some female company. Assign Tauriel to serve her."

"Yes, my King," Haldir bowed deeply, and took off. Fleur made yet another perfect curtsey, while the infuriating servant did not even bother to acknowledge him.

When Haldir returned alone, Thranduil dismounted and sighed. "That servant of hers… he is not a servant at all, is he?"

"I doubt it, my King."

"He is not even pretending to be a servant."

"He seems resigned. Like the Lady Fleur dragged him into doing so," Haldir smirked slightly. "While his lack of respect is bothersome, it is also true that Lady Fleur has him completely under control."

"Maidens will do that," Thranduil chuckled. "How did Tauriel react to guard duty?"

"Pleasantly surprised, my King."

Thranduil raised a single perfect eyebrow. "Truly?"

"...no, I was kidding. She was annoyed. Although I commend her on her effort to hide her irritation, if not the actual results."

Thranduil barked out a laugh. "That's more like it. I hope she didn't expect to be treated differently from any other soldier, except that she was the only reasonable candidate for guarding an elf-maiden. Or treated differently because she only turned one-hundred two years ago."

"I'm sure she'll get over it, my King," Haldir dismissed. "I'm also certain Lady Fleur is a skilled conversationalist."

"Oh? What can you tell me, Haldir?"

"She is much older than she appears. Thus, also much wiser and much more experienced. She is also a sorceress, not unlike the Lady Galadriel."

Thranduil stiffened. "How do you know this? Is she a threat?"

"I know this because she told me. I do not believe she is a threat; she is perfectly mannered and understands she and her servant are guests in our presence. She also claims she has been wanting to meet you and see your kingdom for some time; I do not believe she was lying when she said so."

"I understand." Thranduil smiled. "Very well. Let her stay. Meanwhile, Haldir, perhaps you could indulge me in a game of chess."

* * *

Tauriel stared in mixed fascination and irritation at the elf-maiden who had suddenly become her newest charge. She was feeling conflicted. She felt awe, certainly; the fair-haired maiden was _beautiful_ in every sense of the word; the way her face was sculpted, the way she held herself and spoke, and if she dared be so blunt… the way her body curved. All of these, truthfully, made Tauriel feel awe. And no small amount of jealousy.

Despite the _girl_ (and Tauriel couldn't really find a way to refer to her otherwise) being half a foot shorter than herself, she constantly felt like she was being looked down upon. And the problem was, Tauriel had to constantly remind herself _not_ to bow and scrape before her. She might be young, damn it, but she was one of the best scouts that Thranduil had!

And to say nothing about that infuriating servant. He didn't even try to hide the fact that he was ogling her behind. When she'd stiffly pointed out what he was doing, he had only smirked and complimented her on whatever exercise regime she did to keep up her figure. She had never known that a compliment, given in any other context, could make her feel so dirty.

King Thranduil had continued the march until nightfall, and to her disappointment, the two shorter figures had not been left behind in the dust. In fact, they seemed just as capable, if not more, as the elves in marching. Tauriel was not very happy with having to share her tent (which she often used alone, for she was the only female in her company) with the stranger.

Inside the tent, with a single elven candle - the difference between ordinary and elven candles being that the latter glowed brighter, for longer, with a pale white light - illuminated both herself and her unsolicited guest. Tauriel was extremely uncomfortable. The last half-hour had been spent in silence, during which the woman seemed content to simply stare at Tauriel the whole time, with a ghost of a smile gracing her perfect mouth.

"Can I help you?" Tauriel finally asked.

"Perhaps," Fleur - Tauriel refused to use an honorific with her - smiled wider. "You can tell me a little about yourself. I know nothing about you except that you have a lovely name."

Tauriel hesitated. "Thank you," she answered, unsure how to feel about that. "What would you like to know?"

"Mm. Perhaps how old you are? Your goals or aspirations? What you enjoy doing in your free time?"

"I am one-hundred-and-two years old," Tauriel said firmly. "Before you ask why I'm trying to be a soldier, I have been training with weapons since I was eleven. That is much younger than most elves try to begin training. I have proved my worth since I were still not of age."

"I wasn't going to question your skill, Tauriel," Fleur laughed softly - and Tauriel felt her dislike of the maiden fade away a little bit.

"Thank you. Too many people do that," Tauriel grumbled. " _You're only a child, Tauriel. You're a maiden, Tauriel_."

"It is in the nature of males to want to see their females protected," Fleur gestured dismissively. "To see them layered in silk and locked away in a gilded cage. You will face that stigma for the rest of your life, I'm afraid."

"Did you face similar treatment, then?" Tauriel wondered.

"Occasionally, yes. Where I grew up, it wasn't too bad. Still there, but the effects minimal. See, I am a sorceress, from a family of sorcerers. Magic tends to negate any physical advantage males possess over females."

"You're a witch?" Tauriel's eyes widened.

"A little more complicated than that, but that's the essence of it, yes." She smiled yet another mysterious smile as her fingers grazed the flame. "Perhaps you'd care for a demonstration?"

Before Tauriel could say anything, the maiden clamped her fist over the flame, sending the interior of the tent into darkness. Tauriel blinked, and could barely make out Fleur bringing her closed fist to her lips; she whispered, a gentle sound like a breeze flowing through the leaves, and unclenched her fingers. A brilliant white bird leaped off her palm, soaring through the inside of the tent, making strangely expressive aerial maneuvers. Tauriel hoped that Fleur didn't hear the soft gasp that she made, but she probably did.

The bird, with a strangely long tail, landed on top of the candle once more, only to flare into a simple flame once more. The candle continued to burn as if nothing had happened. Tauriel's eyes, wide in wonder, looked from the candle up to the enigmatic smile that once again graced the maiden's lips.

"How?"

"There are several ways to accomplish magic," Fleur shrugged. "I was born with it. You, it seems, were not. If you wish to perform sorcery, it will be much more difficult for you."

"Are you like Lady Galadriel?" Tauriel found herself asking. "Can you read the future?"

"I can do some scrying, yes," Fleur replied. "Although I doubt my skills are anywhere close to her, from what I have heard of her."

Tauriel looked up from the woman's mouth - it was truly a work of art, the Valar must have paid special attention to craft her - to her eyes. The eyes, a beautiful, sparkling aquamarine, threatened to drag Tauriel's mind into a world of dreams. Then she noticed something just as beautiful as the eyes, in the center of Fleur's forehead. Tauriel had never been interested in jewelry, but she had to ask.

"What is that?"

"Ravenclaw's Diadem? An interesting artifact from my home-land." Fleur smiled. "A trinket I liked and thought to keep. Nothing more."

"But the stone…"

"Ah, the stone, yes." Fleur's tone seemed proud to show it off. "They used to be sapphires, but after Harry found me a beautiful stone from the belly of the Lonely Mountain, I asked him to replace those with it. He called it the Arkenstone - Heart of the Mountain, and I think it's a beautiful name for a beautiful object. I can sense a little magic in it, too - he and I are working together to figure out just what this magic is."

"Pardon me, my Lady," Tauriel's mouth started running without her permission - and did she just use an honorific for the maiden?! - "but if you're such a powerful sorceress, why do you need a servant?"

Fleur laughed. It was a beautiful laugh that made Tauriel feel ugly in comparison, but she couldn't muster the will to be jealous, not when the melodious sound filled her entire mind. "He's not actually my servant, even if he is very sweet on me and will _totally_ do whatever I ask him to. No, he's my… lifelong partner, shall I say. He's very precious to me."

Tauriel gaped. A man like that? Surely she joked. This woman… more beautiful than anyone Tauriel had ever seen, elves included, was willing to choose that heavily scarred, and from what she could see, entirely disrespectful man?

"He isn't just what he appears to be, of course," Fleur said, as if she'd read Tauriel's mind. Tauriel suddenly felt very small as she realized she, with her magic, might be doing _just that_ \- granted, Tauriel didn't know much about magic, but she was intelligent enough to recognize it as a threat. "He's accomplished so much more than you'd believe… for both good and bad. To me, though, he's been nothing but kind."

"I… see."

"Yes, indeed," Fleur said with an amused tone that told Tauriel that she knew Tauriel didn't see. "Shall we rest, now?"

"Yes, let's," Tauriel agreed. She lay down on the straw mat that elven soldiers carried. Fleur flicked her fingers at it - and suddenly, it (and impossibly, the ground below it as well) were just as soft as the beds at home. It didn't take her long to fall asleep.

* * *

"Look at him!"

Harry sighed. "I can see just as well as you can."

"Look! Look at him! He's so cute!"

Legolas squirmed uncomfortably in Fleur's grip. His father, Thranduil, only smirked slightly at his son's situation; he, as a eighty-one year old, was going through that phase of adolescent rebellion… constantly sneaking out on patrol without his father's knowledge, taking out his father's elk on joyrides, and perhaps most importantly, flirting with every elf-maiden he could find.

Thranduil wasn't feeling very sympathetic.

"Such a handsome boy," Fleur cooed. Legolas panicked as she leaned in and kissed his cheek. "I can't believe I got to meet teenage Legolas. You can call me Auntie Fleur, sweetheart."

"Er, yes, um, Auntie Fleur," Legolas stammered.

Tauriel snickered when Fleur pulled Legolas' arm into her - admittedly impressive - chest, and Legolas' face turned bright red. Though, she noted, he wasn't trying to resist anymore. Harry watched on with an exasperated amusement, watching his… partner's, antics.

"Have you been working out, Legolas? I can feel the muscles," Fleur whispered into his ear as she squeezed his bicep. "Have you found a girlfriend yet?"

"Er, I haven't been working out, specifically," Legolas said with red ears. "And no, I haven't found a… girlfriend."

"Well, you're a little young for me," Fleur shrugged carelessly. "But elves become of age at one hundred, right? You can come visit me in… how long?"

"Nineteen years," Harry supplied helpfully.

"Right. Once you become of age, you can seek me out anytime you'd like," Fleur shot him a decidedly vulpine grin. Legolas swallowed hard and nodded, unable to trust himself to speak without his voice cracking.

"Lady Fleur?" Thranduil asked softly, giving Legolas a moment of reprieve (did Tauriel detect a little bit of disappointment on his face when Fleur turned away from him? Surely not) and gathering the two guests' attention. "You are welcome, of course, to speak with my son, but first I'd like to introduce you to your guest quarters."

"I'll take Lady Fleur!" Tauriel said immediately. Thranduil gave her an expressionless glance, but nodded.

"Very well. Tauriel, please find Lady Fleur quarters befitting her station," Thranduil said. The king watched impassively as she was escorted away by Tauriel. His narrowed gaze focused on Harry once they were out of earshot. "As for you…"

"Hm?" Harry wondered with a grin.

"You have been nothing but disrespectful to the Elvenking, cur," Haldir said grimly and drew his blade. "Did you think your behaviors would not be noted? That the Elvenking would grant you his hospitality after insult upon insult? You, my friend, are going to the cells."

A moment of utter shock passed across Harry's face (during which Thranduil felt very pleased) but that was quickly replaced with a look of amusement. "Really? You think you can take me on in a duel?" Harry grasped at the air above his head and, to Haldir and Thranduil's shock, pulled free a blade from nowhere.

"Sorcerer," Haldir said grimly.

"Yup," Harry smirked. "I won't do any magic tricks, if you're worried. I could beat you without them."

"Truly," Haldir drawled as he cut the air with his beautifully-made elven blade. Harry's sword, a rather simple long-sword, was clutched in two hands. "Mannish steel. I admire their effort, but I can never put my trust in it."

"Whatever you say," Harry said dismissively. "Come at me, bro."

Haldir obliged. He rushed at Harry with inhuman speed, and Harry only managed to raise his sword to block. Of course, right before the blades connected, Haldir's sword glowed faintly with a pale light and when he struck, Harry was knocked back like a cannonball and crashed into a tree so hard that it splintered the trunk and groaned as it fell. Haldir watched in shock as Thranduil blinked. It was only due to elven ears that they picked up the faint female giggling from a nearby copse of trees. It sounded like Tauriel and - the likely culprit behind this phenomenon - Lady Fleur.

* * *

**T.A. 1958, September**

Legolas had felt that Greenwood had changed since the arrival of their two guests. It wasn't necessarily good, or bad, simply a bit of excitement when there was none. For this, Legolas was grateful, although he also wished Lady Fleur would stop treating him as if he were twenty years old.

Master Harry (and wasn't that a peculiar name? Although when Legolas had brought that up, Harry had simply sneered and called him 'Leggy', and Legolas had learned his lesson after that) was taken to the dungeons after, according to rumor, being sent flying from here to the southern edge of Mirkwood by Haldir when the latter blasted the man with a crack of lightning. He well remembered the time he'd scurried away from Lady Fleur and went to complain to his friends, only to be interrupted by what indeed sounded like thunder and a massive crash that could probably be heard from the Lonely Mountain.

Of course, being locked up didn't seem to be a problem for him, since he simply… walked out? Nobody ever witnessed him leave the cells, but his father, King Thranduil, had simply resigned to his fate after the tenth time that Harry had been witnessed at his dining table for breakfast, or flirting with a cute elf-maiden, or training with Haldir in the courtyard. Of course, there was also that one time an infatuated elf-maiden had slept in _his cell_ , rather than Harry visit her rooms.

Legolas had once overheard the prison guards joke that elf children were becoming increasingly rare… but that may change yet.

Thranduil was getting on well with Lady Fleur. It had come as a shock to both of them that Lady Fleur and Master Harry did not actually know _how_ to speak Sindarin, they were simply using a spell to make them sound like whatever the other was used to speaking in. Thus, Legolas was pushed to the unfortunate role of teaching Lady Fleur and Master Harry how to speak Sindarin, at Lady Fleur's personal request. More than once Legolas had complained to his father about what terrible students the two of them were. His father had shrugged, but Legolas was certain he was enjoying his discomfort. Really, was riding his elk such a big deal?

This also meant he was charged with the unfortunate task of waking up Master Harry and Lady Fleur. The former was grumpy and combative, while the latter seemed to enjoy taking decades to get ready. Of course, both of them had a habit of being… indecent. And also with other elves. Legolas sighed as he approached Master Harry's room and unsheathed his long knife, using the tip of the blade to rap carefully on the door. It wouldn't do to knock on it again and have his fingers fall off.

"Come in," Harry called, which Legolas had since learned was the password that disabled his magical defenses.

Legolas pushed the door open and immediately flushed red as Harry casually read a book beside a slumbering elf-maiden with hair black as his own. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and Legolas tried to ignore the multitude of scars that criss-crossed his muscular chest - but it was difficult when the alternative was to stare at… _was that his friend Fenlas_?

The elf-maiden in question blinked and stirred. Harry glanced at her. "We have a guest," he said dryly. "A voyeur, it seems."

Legolas turned bright red at that. "I am not a voyeur!"

"Legolas?" Fenlas said sleepily, and sat up. Legolas tried to look _anywhere but there_ as the blankets slid partway down her chest. "Why are you here?"

"I needed to wake Master Harry for his lessons, you know why," he bit out.

"I think Fenlas needs her lessons more than I need mine," Harry breathed as he nibbled on the maiden's earlobe. Fenlas' breath hitched and she turned red slightly, and Legolas tried not to throw up. "What say you?"

Legolas slammed the door to Harry's room and clutched at his chest. There was no way he wanted to interrupt that. He dourly moved on to the next room, which should be containing Lady Fleur, and hopefully, if he was lucky, without a young elf male. He sighed, steeled himself, and knocked. At least she didn't rig magical traps on her doors.

"Lady Fleur? Are you decent?"

"Hm, yes, I suppose I am."

Legolas was not heartened by this response, but he opened the door anyway. He froze. Lady Fleur was combing her long, platinum hair with a polished wooden hairbrush in her bed, with nothing but a 'brassiere' (an invention that supposedly the maiden-folk of Mirkwood took to with vigor) to conceal her modesty. Beside her, in the bed, was a similarly barely clothed… elf-maiden?

"Oh, good morning, Legolas," Celaruin said with a smile.

"Were the two of you sleeping together, or… _sleeping together_?" Legolas asked hesitantly.

Fleur quirked an eyebrow. "Both, I suppose," she said. "Do you have a problem with it, Legolas?"

Well… Legolas had heard that some elves… _slept_ , for lack of a better word, with those of the same sex, but nobody had ever confirmed it. It felt strange. Unnatural, perhaps, knowing that they were doing so to each other. Celaruin was humming happily as she commandeered the brush and untangled Lady Fleur's hair for her.

"Is something wrong, Legolas?"

Legolas realized he had not answered Lady Fleur's previous question. "No, no, I don't," he said hastily. "I was surprised, is all."

"Good answer," Fleur said quietly, and Legolas swallowed nervously.

"So!" He forced himself to grin. "Are you ready for lessons?"

Fleur looked at him, then at Celaruin. The latter pouted adorably with full, red lips and making puppy eyes with her teal eyes. Fleur looked back to Legolas and then back to the girl. "So far, Celaruin is making the most adorable face ever," Fleur said. "So I'm inclined to stay with her."

"But…"

"I'm sure, though, you could convince me with your own puppy eyes?" Fleur smiled. "You have an adorable pout. If you do that… maybe I'll have to join you."

Legolas blushed. "No."

"Then I'm staying here. And you can get chewed out by your father for not taking your charge seriously."

"Why do you do this?" Legolas asked miserably.

"Heh. Look at him," Fleur whispered to Celaruin, who was smirking. "You're getting there. All you're missing is that pout."

"...fine," Legolas muttered, and pouted.

As he predicted, Fleur squealed in joy and clapped her hands, while Celaruin placed her hands on her chest and let out an "awwww." Legolas blushed furiously as Fleur gave the girl a peck on her cheek and jumped off the bed to thrown on some clothes.

"You've convinced me, Legolas," Fleur said in a sugary voice.

"Can I come along? Legolas is too cute," Celaruin asked, and Legolas sorely wished that he was in bed right now, and was not required to do anything or meet anyone.

"That way I can stay with both of you!" Fleur said happily. "Come on, then. We have a Sindarin lesson to attend to, with our teacher being the most adorable elf on this planet."

Legolas hated her.

* * *

"Woohoo!"

The Blackbird's afterburners howled, and the tips of the great black wings left twin lines behind them. The great eagles watched in (what was probably the bird equivalent of) shock and awe as the sleek, massive and _loud_ , modified SR-71 hurtled through the air. They weren't moving very fast right now, since they were only a thousand feet in the air and Katie wanted to meet the eagles.

"Hey, there!" Katie waved from the open cockpit at the bewildered raptors. "Do you like my Blackbird?"

"It's hardly _your_ Blackbird," Ron grumbled. It was Harry and Ron who had modified this, after all.

"Shut up, Ron," Katie muttered. Then, turning back to the eagles: "I'm a big fan! I love you guys!"

"Thank you?" One of the eagles answered in confusion, before a larger, older eagle whacked him with a wingtip. Katie couldn't help laughing.

"Get your dark magic out of our skies, witch," the older eagle hissed.

"Turn it down," Katie ordered Ron, and the magical sound dampeners kicked in. "What did you say?"

"I said, get out of our skies!"

"Hmm," Katie said thoughtfully. "I didn't know you had a monopoly on the skies."

"We are the king of the skies, witch."

"Tell you what, if you can beat us in a race, we'll concede your ownership of the skies," Katie smirked. "What do you think?"

"We do not negotiate with dark witches."

"I'm as pale as they come, honey. So, you afraid or something? Some _king_."

"You dare-!"

"Ready?" Katie grinned happily. "Three, two, one-"

The two eagles rushed forward, caught in the heat of the moment; they surged forward with powerful flaps of their mighty wings. Their short-term acceleration was much better, for obvious reasons. Katie kicked the back of Ron's seat. "They're winning, Ron! Catch them!"

"Please be quiet," Ron muttered. Nonetheless, he opened up the throttle and canceled the noise dampeners. The roar of the engines overwhelmed Katie, to the point like she felt the vibrations would knock her teeth loose. Nonetheless, it was a thrilling experience, and Ron winced as Katie squealed with unrestrained joy into her radio headset.

The Blackbird began to climb at a slight angle, and Katie was forced back into her seat as the metal beast began to catch up to the eagles, who were now practically falling out of the air with shock. The eagles had managed a decent amount of space, and they were probably as fast a commercial propeller aircraft in level flight - not a bad speed at all. Of course, the Blackbird barely needed effort to reach the sound barrier.

The eagles were knocked aside by the air that the Blackbird was slicing through. Katie imagined their reactions - for they were too far away to see, now - as they punched through the sound barrier. In another minute, they passed Mach 2 - and continued further upward. As they continued to climb, soon enough reaching 20,000 feet, the speed-based magical enhancements began to kick in.

The first was a air funnel that collected air from its surroundings even as the atmosphere thinned with increasing altitude. This had the dual purpose of funneling more air into the scramjet engines, and also removing air from the Blackbird's flight trajectory and therefore reducing drag.

The second was the magical combustion catalyst. While the Blackbird used traditional jet fuel to power its engines, on the ground and at lower speeds magic compensated for a good portion of the fuel to give it extended range and efficiency. At higher speeds and altitudes, fuel usage was greatly increased, and magic was used not to replace fuel, but to complement it, resulting in two trails of blazing white fire burning at temperatures close to the surface of the sun. The reason this could only be used in high altitudes and speeds was that the engines would melt before it outran the flames it produced.

"This is amazing," Katie breathed, pushing her face to the window. "Why don't you do this more often?"

"Jet fuel is expensive, you know," Ron said, but Katie could hear the smile in his tone, too.

"It's so beautiful," Katie murmured. They had traveled high enough to see a visible curvature of Arda. The world was strikingly similar to that of Earth, with the seas wine-dark, the clouds creating white froth on these pools, green lands becoming a beautiful yellow as they continued hurtling south towards Harad. Even though the magical modifications had pushed the Blackbird to a speed of Mach 6.5, it was peaceful up here, with no sign of turbulence or any indication of passing time.

"It is, isn't it?"

At some point Katie fell asleep. When she awoke, it was from Ron, telling her that they were about to make a landing on the Dark Lands. It was a bit of a disappointment to drift out of the serenity and into mild turbulence again, but Katie reminded herself that there would be plenty to see in this continent.

"Strap in," Ron told her.

Using a mixture of levitation and momentum arrestors and other spells weaved into each other, the Blackbird made a successful vertical landing on the shore of the Dark Lands. Katie gasped as she hopped outside and removed her headset, casting _finite_ on her clothes to revert them from her flight suit back into a comfortable, breezy sundress. She kicked off her sandals as she whooped and charged at the beautiful golden beach that stretched before her.

"And they call this the Dark Land?" Ron smiled, he too reverting his clothes into casual-wear. He followed Katie, at a more sedate pace, to the beach, kicking off his shoes. The sensation of sand underneath his toes… it was soft, hot but not scalding. It was perfect. The blue waters sparkled invitingly, and Katie hitched up her dress as she jumped into the water.

"It's warm," she grinned. "Come on!"

Ron laughed as he followed her into the water. She shrieked as Ron summoned a super-soaker from the Wardrobe and drenched her while she had her back turned. Katie snarled. She summoned another super-soaker from the Wardrobe, and with a flick of her damp fingers, enlarged it until it was thrice its original size. It was Ron's turn to shriek like a girl as he was not only drenched, but blasted back into the water.

Katie was howling with laughter by the time Ron regained his footing and emerged from the surface, spluttering out seawater. He growled, his clothes morphing into swimming trunks, and he dived into the water once more, abandoning the water cannon. His body morphed into the shape of a manatee, and he charged at Katie, knocking her feet out from under her.

He heard a muffled "hey!" of surprise, and as he swam out to deeper waters, he realized he was being trailed by a rather annoyed-looking dolphin. The dolphin, naturally, did not have the same combat capabilities of a human, so he was attacked with a rather pointless body-slam.

They broke the surface of the water together, returning to human form. Katie smiled at Ron, who smiled back. She kicked her way closer to him, enveloping his neck in her arms, and gave him a deep, and salty, kiss. She pulled back and beamed. Ron's cheeks were sore from smiling so wide.

"This is amazing, and I love you."

"I love you too, Katie," Ron said with amusement.

"Hold on," Katie said, squinting and pointing to the horizon. "Are those sharks?"

"Maybe?" Katie had better eyes than he did. "Investigate?"

"Sure." Katie's body morphed into a giant black-and-white orca, while Ron turned into a sperm whale. If they were indeed sharks, and if they were hostile, then their sheer size (and their nasty teeth) would protect them.

They were, indeed, sharks. But they were _bloody huge_. Katie's jaw-dropping orca would've been funny if Ron didn't know he looked the same way. The sharks looked like great whites, but twice as large as they should be, and the individual teeth looked like buzzsaws. They were close to the size of Ron who, as a male sperm whale, clocked in at a generous 12.6 meters in length.

If orcas could swallow nervously, Katie was doing that right now. She turned tail and swam back towards shore at max speed, and Ron didn't complain as he followed.

Returning to human form, Katie and Ron stumbled back onto the sand. Thankfully, magic was effective at getting rid of moisture and sand both. They sighed defeatedly as they gazed out to the sapphire-colored sea. They silently agreed to return further inland to try and find a suitable place to raise their Cozy Cottage for the night.

"Here?" Ron asked, pointing to a small hill not too far from the beach. "It won't get flooded, because it's on high ground."

"Sure," Katie agreed.

Upon hiking to the peak of the hill, Ron pulled out a small cubic model of a house, only about an inch by inch at its base, and tossed it underhand. The cottage's shrinking charm was cancelled, and a small, but definitely human-sized log cottage formed on the hill. Ron held open the timber door for Katie, who passed through.

Unlike most wizarding portable buildings, the cottage was not larger on the inside than out. Combining an external shrinking charm with internal space-bending mumbo-jumbo could potentially result in disaster. Nothing serious, like breaking the space-time continuum, but anyone unfortunate to be inside when the spells collapsed might experience a mild case of being squished into paste.

Thus, the inside was dominated by a kitchenette, a bathroom, and a queen-sized bed, with little room for anything else. They didn't mind. Katie sighed in pleasure as she fell backwards onto the bed. Ron dropped down beside her. The dark-haired beauty turned to him with a brilliant smile.

"Today was a lot of fun," Katie said.

"It was," Ron agreed.

"I wonder what else we'll find here."

Ron hummed. Then they stared at each other in silence. After three thousand-odd years, it was difficult to find something to talk about, at least with the two of them alone. Since they were in the middle of nowhere, too, it wasn't as if they had rumor or gossip to discuss. But that was fine. Staring into each others' faces lovingly was more than enough.

At some point the two of them fell asleep, though neither noticed. What they did notice, however, were heavy footfalls outside the house. It was like a minor earthquake - nowhere near the level of being unable to stand, but faint tremors passing through the ground and into their bones just recognizable enough for them to realize that something was happening. Katie vaulted off the bed and looked out the window, before paling.

"...oh, buggering fuck."

"What's wrong?" Ron joined her, and paled even more. His arachnophobia had never disappeared, not really… and beyond the window was a veritable tidal wave of spiders, marching like ants, in the valley below. They didn't seem interested in the cabin, thankfully. This was a very good thing, because each of these spiders were the size of Humvees.

"Oh, Merlin," Ron squeaked.

"It's okay, go back to bed," Katie said gently, and Ron did as she suggested. "I can't believe it. Giant sharks, giant spiders… but absolutely beautiful beaches." Katie frowned. "The Dark Land is the only continent in the southern hemisphere in Arda, I'm pretty sure."

"You're telling me this is crackpot Australia?"

"...that would make a lot of sense, yes."

Thus ended Ron and Katie's first day in Tolkienesque Australia with typical Australian wildlife, except they were engorged by magic.


	5. Chapter 5

**T.A. 1960, February**

King Thranduil watched Lady Fleur and Master Harry ('just call me Harry damn you') bicker over the juice at his long dining table. He himself was seated on a raised dais at the head of the table, while the two were seated near the foot of it. Closer to Thranduil were more esteemed subjects like Haldir, but to even belong at the Elvenking's table was a great honor and showed that the warlocks had already gained the respect of the King, moreso than elves.

Elves of Mirkwood were amicable with Men, for Men oft came to trade with them. A small group of Men had settled on the crook of the River Celduin, a measly number counted in the dozens, but being immediately next to a river there seemed to be fertile farmland that they had taken to irrigating. They came to the elves to trade for goods they themselves could not easily acquire, such as metal ores.

However, it was practically unheard of for a non-elf to be seated at Thranduil's table on regular occasion. It had come to a surprise to all to find that Lady Fleur was, in fact, not an elf-maiden (Legolas had rather rudely blurted out that Lady Fleur's ear-tips were rounded when she was brushing her hair) but a man. Not just any man, either, but some sort of mixed-breed with a magical humanoid race she called the Veela.

Harry was, as he put it, 'one-hundred percent human', although there was an aura around him that Thranduil felt like he should take note of. It had taken him a full year to place just what it reminded him of - an aura that reeked a little of death, but not the same kind of dark magic that encroached upon his kingdom. Harry's 'Death' felt a little liked… reprieve, perhaps. Like an invitation to rest at Mandos' Hall. It felt inevitable, yet not actively hostile, and certainly not like the necromancy that was being practiced in the depths of Angmar.

"Maybe if you weren't busy having a foursome, you'd have more juice left for you," Harry snarked, and Thranduil, as was his policy, pretended not to have heard.

Haldir was much friendlier with the two of them, due to him being Harry's swordsmanship mentor. Haldir sniggered at the expression on Legolas' face, as well as most of his advisors. Thranduil had attempted to once introduce his advisors to Master Harry, but the latter had immediately dismissed them as 'desk-jockeys' and paid them zero attention after that. For Thranduil, that had been a bit of an embarrassment, and his advisors had gone into hiding for several days as protest for their King's hosting of this barbarian.

Despite his casual dismissal of his advisors, Harry was not an unlearned man. Far from it, in fact. While he was the most knowledgeable of the arcane arts (naturally) he also knew complicated mathematics that branched into the sciences. He knew things that Thranduil would never even have _dreamed_ of - why the sky was blue during the day and red during sunsets, why iron rusted over time, and why children appeared like their parents. He openly admitted that he didn't know if his knowledge was consistent in Arda as well as his old world given that Arda was not created through a freak accident but intentionally by superior beings. Thranduil on the other hand could not comprehend that live could flourish from a near-improbable sequences of events involving massive rocks the sizes of moons smashing into each other.

"Lady Fleur!" Legolas stammered, attempting to be disapproving. Even after spending almost two years with these people, he had yet to be desensitized to the unnecessary information they blurted out at the most awkward of times. Thranduil was surprised at that.

"Perhaps if you acted like a decent husband we'd both be late for breakfast rather than just one of us," Fleur harrumphed. Haldir whistled at that comment.

"Oh, please. You know full well that I have few too many cocks to please you, if this morning is any indication."

" _Va te faire enculer_ ," Fleur snapped. This phrase, though in a language he did not understand, Thranduil recognized as 'go fuck yourself' from the sheer number of times Fleur directed it at her husband.

"Too tired to do me yourself?" Harry mocked. "You're bringing shame to your succubus heritage."

If Fleur were any other Veela that Harry barely knew, Thranduil had been kindly informed, referring to them as succubi was a surefire way to get incinerated. Fleur on the other hand only snorted, flaring her nostrils, and Thranduil wondered if he'd actually seen or just hallucinated the good lady emit a bit of smoke from them like a dragon.

"How do you manage to bicker so often and not destroy each other in the process?" Haldir wondered.

"Because it wastes too much time and effort to try anything that would come even remotely close to killing us," Fleur shrugged in response. "And if dear Harry were to die and leave me alone, who would keep him entertained longer than two weeks? He'd have to kill himself so he can apologize to me."

"She also loves me too much to really hurt me," Harry smirked.

"My friends," Thranduil interrupted as the breakfast neared its end. "I would like to remind you that an honored guest will be arriving today. That means, Legolas, you remain on your best behavior. And…" he sighed. "Fleur, Harry, both of you must also be on your best behavior."

"No way," Harry placed his hand on his chest dramatically. "Don't tell me Lady Galadriel is coming? I need to be presentable for her."

Thranduil sighed, cradling his cheek in his palm. "Please, Harry don't do this to me. Regardless, it's not Lady Galadriel who comes, it will Lord Glorfindel."

"Glorfindel?" Harry blinked, perking up. "The Balrog-slayer?"

"Indeed."

"Sounds exciting," Harry said, and did Thranduil just detect a hint of respect in his voice? Was that the first time, ever? "For what reasons does he come?"

Thranduil smiled slightly. "Partially a reunion between old friends. However, he has mentioned an interest in the two of you as well."

Harry and Fleur actually looked dumbstruck, while some of the maidens - and some of the males - looked at the two jealously. Two non-elves, catching the attention of an elf of legend, an elf that died and returned from Mandos' Hall? Being reputed to be indescribably handsome as well as being single may have something to do with it, too.

"I need to be presentable for him," Fleur said, unknowingly echoing her husband from earlier. It always confused Thranduil how open the two of them seemed with their relationship. Perhaps it was a Mannish thing?

"It won't help you," Harry smirked, his shock overcome. "What have you been telling him, Thranduil?"

Thranduil ignored the lack of his title. He knew Harry respected him, at least after spending time with each other and getting to learn each others' achievements better. Harry used peculiar ways to show respect. "I have been telling the truth. That two of the race of Men joined us while we were returning to Greenwood from the Grey Mountains, and that at least one of them is an insufferable clown."

Harry grinned. "Sounds about right."

Thranduil placed the conversation on hiatus, waiting until everyone left the table, save for himself, the warlocks, Haldir, Tauriel, and Legolas. Once the table was empty and the maids had taken away the dishes and cutlery, Thranduil had the doors to the feast hall closed and continued.

"I suspect he was also interested in the fact you can both wield magic," Thranduil admitted. "Worry not; Glorfindel is one I trust with my life. He is also a staunch enemy of the darkness, and he will not betray you to the enemy."

"What makes you think that the darkness is my enemy?" Harry raised an eyebrow.

Despite Tauriel and Legolas stiffening slightly, Thranduil was unconcerned. "I have discussed with you about the shadows and their servants. I have seen the face you pull when necromancy is mentioned - you are disgusted by them. Death does not bother you, but a cursed half-life of the Witch King's kind bothers you greatly and you will do anything to destroy it."

Harry remained silent for a very long moment. "I suppose you're right," he admitted finally.

"As such, I have seen fit to introduce you to Lord Glorfindel, an elf I am certain will become one of your greatest allies in the times to come," Thranduil said with a slight smile.

Once their meal was done, the two Men rushed off to prepare for Glorfindel's coming. Legolas and Tauriel obviously felt the need to do so as well, and made a dignified, but quick retreat to their respective chambers. Thranduil and Haldir, naturally, did not need to. They were _always_ well-dressed.

It was two hours later that the King of Elves, his general, the Prince and the two Warlocks watched Glorfindel's party approach. Legolas quietly queried how the two Men could see when it was difficult for even Elves to spot the incoming guests; Fleur was at least partly non-human, and Harry had performed plenty of bodily augmentations. While Thranduil remained outwardly calm, it never ceased to shock him how wielders of magic could describe outlandish notions like switching bodies as if it were easy as switching clothing.

"Hail, King Thranduil!" Glorfindel called as he dismounted before the King.

"Lord Glorfindel, you grace Greenwood with your presence," Thranduil gave a shallow bow. Haldir, Legolas and Tauriel did the same, Fleur did a small curtsy, but Harry only gave a nod of recognition, instead opting to spend more time sizing up the elf.

"You have grown, Legolas," Glorfindel grinned. If any elf could be described as Mannish, then it was perhaps him; Glorfindel had always been friendly and carefree. "Lord Haldir, always and honor. And the two of you…" he squinted at them. "You two must be the warlocks that the King has spoken of."

"Indeed we are, my Lord," Fleur said with a disarming smile - by the Valar, she was beautiful. Glorfindel obviously felt the same way, judging by the slight changes in his facial expression, any measure of guardedness relaxing away. "We have in turn heard plenty about you."

"You seem like a decent bloke," Harry nodded.

While Thranduil would have thrown the insolent man into the dungeons for that casual greeting (and indeed he had, at least _ten times_ ) Glorfindel couldn't care less. He clasped arms with the raven-haired sorcerer, delighting in the firm grip of the latter. "And yourself. I have heard you are a master of many things non-magical, too! Haldir tells me you have wickedly good swordsmanship. Not quite as good as an elf's, perhaps, but I shall be interesting to test my skill against you."

"If only I could look forward to the same," Harry sighed dramatically, and Glorfindel clutched at his chest in mock hurt.

Thranduil had only noticed a young elf-maiden from the corner of his eye, shyly and awkwardly standing next to her mare, her hair as black as that of her midnight steed. Her visage was familiar to Thranduil; that was Arwen, Ol' Elrond's daughter. And a bachelorette, too - a highly sought after one.

"Men," Fleur rolled her eyes, and strode over to the maiden. Arwen seemed startled and shrank away, seeming smaller than the quarter-Veela despite being several inches advantage over the blonde. "You must be Arwen, Lord Elrond's daughter. You're prettier than folks say you are! Come, let's make you cozy. Do you like to read?"

Thranduil watched with a faint smile as Arwen flushed slightly and stammered an affirmative. It was a strange sight, knowing that Arwen often had an assertive and sometimes even tomboyish streak, and might otherwise consider this a waste of her time. Glorfindel was getting on legendarily with Harry. While Thranduil worried somewhat for his wine stores, he had a feeling this meeting would go well.

* * *

"How fares Elrond?" Thranduil asked, as he, Haldir, Harry and Glorfindel entered his private study.

"Well," Glorfindel replied. "There was a bit of tension two moons ago with orcs sighted on the borders of Rivendell, but it was resolved quickly."

"Good," Thranduil said simply. There was no love between elves and their twisted cousins.

"Lord Elrond has also expressed his interest in you, Master Harry," Glorfindel said with a slight incline of his head. "He is interested in your 'potions' and their applications on healing. While he has extensive knowledge of healing elixirs, there can never be too few contingencies."

"And I'd be happy to share my knowledge with him, if you'll introduce me," Harry smiled.

"He'll be pleased to hear," Glorfindel grinned. "The opportunity to meet him may come quicker than you realize, however. This is part of the reason I have come here to Greenwood."

"Oh?"

"Your friends Ronald and Katherine," he pronounced those names with a strange, but pleasant-sounding elvish inflection, "have been deemed trustworthy by Mithrandir. Furthermore, you and Lady Fleur have gained the respect and trust of both Haldir and King Thranduil, who are noble elves I'd give my life for. While we have not known you long, we believe you, with your exotic wisdom, may be able to contribute to the discussions held in the White Council."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Who is in it?"

"That depends on who comes. The White Council has not been held since the Second Age, you see, with Gil-Galad at its head. However, Lady Galadriel deemed four white stars falling to the earth and the coinciding appearance of immensely powerful Istari to be a matter that should be considered by the wisest in the realm."

"Aw, you flatter me, Glorfy."

"Please do not call me that."

"You blushing only makes me want to do it more. It's true, ask Thandy."

Haldir failed to contain his snort this time even as Thranduil ran a palm over his face. It was a shame that the warlock was seemingly invincible to anything Thranduil could throw at him. It was better deal than he imagined, though, being treated like an equal - it formed a friendship, something he had not done in centuries, and it was also much better than being talked down upon, he supposed.

"Anyway," Glorfindel continued, as if he hadn't heard Harry's new nickname for him. "Lady Galadriel and Curunir both felt they needed to get the measure of the two of you. Although the latter supposedly retracted his curiosity after he learned that you and Lady Fleur spawned the Snowfolk."

Thranduil snorted softly in amusement.

"Please, Thandy, your first reaction wasn't that much better. You got all broody and stuff. Funny to watch, but you were really unfair towards your kid, your general, and your maids."

"You need not remind me, Harry," Thranduil sighed. If only the Man's name was longer. Thranduil couldn't make a stupid-sounding nickname with a two-syllable name.

"Yes, I do. Who else is going to keep your ego in check? Anyway," he turned back to Glorfindel. "I don't particularly care for this so-called Curunir, anyway. I've spoken with Gaby a few times since we left and he sounds like a right twat. Galadriel, on the other hand, I've heard is a total GILF."

"What's a GILF?" Glorfindel asked.

"You don't want to know," Haldir interrupted. Good man.

"I suspect I don't," Glorfindel nodded at Haldir's wisdom. "But yes. Everyone but the White Wizard, and possibly the Brown Wizard, will be attending. The Brown Wizard is rather shy and prefers the company of his animals to those of Elves or Men. Lord Elrond is certainly eager to meet you both."

"Sounds good to me," Harry shrugged. "When is this meeting? Do you think Lady Galadriel would be willing to host me in her home?"

"The Council will take place in three moons' time. Until then, well, I suppose we'll be doing all sorts of things that Menfolk do, perhaps we can spar and train together."

Harry grinned. "I've been looking forward to a spar with you. I think I'll enjoy it."

Haldir decided to give his own opinion, as well. "You might be surprised to note that Harry is an excellent storyteller. More than once young Prince Legolas has asked for bed-time stories from him."

"Oh?" Glorfindel raised a questioning eyebrow raised at both the general and the king.

"Indeed," Haldir said, and continued with a perfectly straight face. "My favorites are the stories of Zeus whereupon he transforms into various animals for the sake of serenading mortal women."

Glorfindel blinked.

"What?"

"Nothing, dear Haldir," Glorfindel said neutrally. "I'm sure they are fascinating."

"So, what should I get Galadriel? Does she like jewelry? All women like jewelry, right?" Harry asked. "Oh, I know! I'll get her some chocolates. I know for a fact that this world has yet to discover chocolate."

"Do I want to know what that is?" Glorfindel asked with a glance to Haldir.

"Absolutely. It's the most amazing thing I have tasted in my life," Haldir said smugly.

Glorfindel pouted when he realized he was missing out on something that was actually pretty good. Since Harry had already decided he and Fleur would join the next Council, the four of them traded stories. It got to the point where they lost track of time and they ended up talking until the sun went down.

"I'd best handle my matters," Thranduil said, mildly surprised. "I have duties that I must attend to."

"Alright," Harry said, standing up and looking to Glorfindel. "Shall I introduce you to Fleur, now?"

Glorfindel gestured to the door and followed Harry out. The man walked completely silently, Glorfindel noticed, even to his enhanced elf ears. A feat difficult for even elves - if the man wasn't walking directly in front of him, he might not even realize that Harry was there. Perhaps he had a magical method of concealing his presence, as well.

"There you are," Harry said. "Glorfindel, meet Fleur Delacour."

Glorfindel came to a pause as he gazed upon, perhaps, the most beautiful woman he'd ever witnessed. Braided, silver-colored hair flowed down to her waist, and her aquamarine eyes pierced the dusk and bore into his own. She was shorter than most elves, but her figure was perfect, and she wore a black dress that seemed to reveal nothing yet imply everything. Lust bubbled up at the back of his mind, without his say-so. Her full lips quirked into an enigmatic smile, and she cursied elegantly.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Glorfindel."

Oh, Valar, and that _voice_. And that beautiful accent of hers, however faint. Glorfindel thanked the stars that he'd had the good sense to remain a bachelor all his life. Why tie himself down with one maiden when he could encounter true works of art like her? Despite his mind being a whirlwind, he didn't forget his manners. He clasped her fingers and brushed his lips across her knuckles. "The pleasure is entirely my own, Lady Fleur."

"Harry, dear, can you fetch us some drinks?" Fleur said with a brilliant smile, and to Glorfindel's surprise, he did. Then again, he doubted he himself could resist the charm that she was radiating. Her lips parted slightly, revealing perfect white teeth. "It appears your rumors do not do you justice, my Lord."

Glorfindel soon lost track of time, between the wine and the woman. The lady had commandeered the conversation, but he was fine with that; more of his mind could be used to focus on her cheekbones, her brows, and her pale collarbones. It was after many of the elves had retired or moved elsewhere in their festivities that she stood up, smoothing her black dress over her thighs. She beckoned with a single tantalizing finger and turned around, fully expecting him to follow.

Glorfindel snorted as he stood up. The Slayer of Balrogs, being led about by the hand like a child. Surely nobody else was capable of resisting her charms, either. His eyes focused on the mesmerizing sway of her hips, the outline blurred against the darkness, and the pendulum-like swinging of her long, braided hair. She disappeared into what was apparently her quarters, and Glorfindel followed. He took a step through, only to realize there was nobody in his line of sight.

The door shut and clicked. Glorfindel turned around to see that Fleur had locked the door. He smiled slightly. Just like Harry, he thought distantly, she must have some way of concealing her presence, through magic or simply skill. She placed a palm on his chest and pushed him back onto the bed, and saddled his lap.

"You're much more impressive than I thought," she breathed into his ear. "Impress me again."

* * *

**T.A. 1960, May**

"Come on, Glorfy. You gonna fight me or not?"

"We sparred this morning!"

"And I'm fucking bored! I fucking hate medieval travel. That's it, I'm inventing the steam engine and building railroads all across Middle-fucking-Earth."

Elves, as a side-effect of their semi-infinite lifespan, had no problems with boredom. Or, at least, it took a long time of doing nothing for them to feel bored. These Men were, to quote the Ents, 'very hasty.' Ents were arguably the slowest creatures in Middle-Earth, so that may be a little unfair. Regardless, Harry had been egging Glorfindel into spars every other hour.

Of course, Harry had read two books per day for every day of the last two weeks they'd been on the trail to Lothlorien. He abruptly stopped reading yesterday, saying that he was sick of staring at paper all the time. He had to get imaginative to fill his time - he'd engaged Glorfindel, Arwen, Tauriel and Fleur in a curious game called 'Scrabble'. Lady Arwen was perhaps the most scholarly out of all of them, and she had the most wins. However, Lady Fleur and Harry both performed admirably. They picked up languages very quickly. They picked up anything very quickly, in truth.

"Why can't you spar with Lady Fleur?" Glorfindel asked. "Or Tauriel, for that matter?"

"Cause Fleur kicks my arse every time," he whined. "And Tauriel's a sore loser."

"I am not," Tauriel sniffed. The four others turned to look at her, and she swallowed. "What?"

"You really are, Tauriel," Arwen commented.

"Wh- my Lady!" Tauriel gasped, pressing her hand to her chest. "You wound me."

Glorfindel got the idea that Harry and Fleur both liked Arwen, a lot. The latter had once referred to Arwen as the 'big tiddy goth elf GF,' whatever the hell that meant. Harry wasn't even reserved when he discussed with Glorfindel all the amazing qualities that Arwen carried, particularly those on her backside and on her chest.

"Won't Lady Fleur be offended you are paying so much attention to her?" He had asked in concern.

"Did you really think you were fooling me when you visit Fleur every other night?" Harry had replied, and Glorfindel had no reply to that except to blush tremendously. "Plus, I've discussed it with her. She seems to agree on those qualities."

Glorfindel returned his attention to the present, where they were sitting in a ring around a campfire and just about finishing their evening meal. Tauriel had managed to find a wild turkey and shot it, and Fleur had somehow transformed it into a fairly hearty and delicious meal with only limited cooking supplies from her pack.

"It's a clear sky tonight," Harry said, looking up. And it was indeed. The past two weeks had been mostly overcast, and Greenwood - called Mirkwood often these days - had overhanging shadows too thick to pierce for most stars. "Arwen, darling, do you want to go for a flight?"

"A flight?" Arwen raised a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "On what?"

"On me, of course," he bounced his eyebrows. "Didn't Tauriel tell you that I'm good at animagus transformations? I'm actually pretty good at most transfigurations in general."

"Animagus transformations?" For once, Arwen's neutral expression broke apart into slight confusion. "Like the skin-changers in the north?"

"Somewhat, but I'm not limited to one form," Harry grinned happily. "Well, I was once, but I figured a way around it. Now, up you get." He tugged Arwen to her feet, and picked her up in a piggyback. Arwen looked to Fleur for guidance - the young woman had found kinship in the sorceress - but Fleur only nodded and waved lazily. Arwen sighed and turned to Harry.

Her unimpressed expression quickly morphed into pleasant surprise, as did that of Tauriel and Glorfindel. Harry began morphing into a great raven, feathers as black as his hair and his eyes strikingly green. He spread great wings until he was surely the size of one of the smaller of Great Eagles that lived in the cliffs.

"Hold on," Glorfindel interrupted. "You're telling me that you could have done this from the beginning and got us to Lothlorien in perhaps a day, two at most?"

"Fuck off, Glorfy," Harry replied. "I refuse to do you any favors where I don't have to."

Glorfindel grumbled as he sat back down. "You were the one complaining of boredom."

"I needed time to flirt with Arwen."

Glorfindel rolled his eyes as Harry took off from the ground with mighty flaps of his wings. Arwen, uncharacteristically, actually _squeaked_ in surprise as they tore away from the earth and towards the heavens. Glorfindel watched the shadow become smaller, and soon enough they were only a phantom high in the sky, only visible from the corner of one's eye. Glorfindel looked back to the campfire and saw the redheaded elf-maiden staring up still, with a slight expression on her face that looked like jealousy.

In Fleur's words, Tauriel appeared to 'have a crush' on the sorcerer. Poor girl.

It didn't help that Harry flirted with Tauriel just often enough to keep his image in her mind, too. Well, he wasn't really flirting, but Tauriel, being the young maiden that she was, perceived it that way. By the Valar, if Harry's conversation with Tauriel counted as flirting, his interactions with Glorfindel himself could be considered positively risque.

"Do the two of you want to fly, as well?" Fleur asked quietly.

Glorfindel grinned. "If you're willing, my Lady, I'd be honored."

"Yes, please," was Tauriel's quiet reply.

Fleur stood up, stretched, popping her vertebrae, and shrugged. Somehow, her shrugging blurred her physical form and warped her; she began to grow feathers, a hooked beak, and a long, reptilian tail. Her legs became lean and taut, folding in on itself, and giant talons adorning the end of them. Her arms expanded out into wings, and a massive, but unfamiliar bird of prey stood in front of them. Tauriel and Glorfindel hopped onto her back.

Glorfindel had once ridden on the back of a Great Eagle before, and this was only somewhat similar. He supposed it stood to reason that Fleur did not have as much experience in being a bird, and was thus less adept at flying. Still, though, it was exhilirating - sailing through the sky was not a feat many Men, or Elves, could brag about. Tauriel whooped as Fleur chased the raven into a dive, and pulled up at the last moment, shooting up into the sky like an arrow. Words he'd heard from Harry came unbidden to his mind.

"I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth, I knew not where," he breathed. Tauriel glanced back at him and smiled. "For, so swiftly it flew, the sight could not follow in its flight."

Fleur took them so far up into the sky that Glorfindel and Tauriel literally touched the clouds, and low enough to skim just above the trees. As Fleur and Harry continued to circle around each other, Tauriel spoke. "Knock Arwen off the raven!"

There was a rumble from below, reminiscient of a chuckle, and Fleur sped towards the raven with the intent to ram it in the side. Harry squawked in an undignified manner as he twisted out of the way, and Arwen shrieked from atop his back. Tauriel and Glorfindel jeered at them and made rude gestures as Fleur swooped up and prepared another strafing run.

As Fleur approached, Glorfindel saw that Harry was morphing into something else - something larger than a raven. It seemed to be another type of eagle, though this one had a pale face and a crown of darker, gray feathers adorning it, and thundercloud-colored wings. It screeched at Fleur, before kicking itself out of her way.

Fleur growled audibly from underneath and her two riders struggled to remain onboard as she morphed into a giant swan, pale white in stark constrast against the sky. When Harry noticed this, he started to grow larger, the feathers retracting, eye-slits becoming vertical and more reptilian… Glorfindel and Tauriel found their jaws dropping as Harry grew into a monstrous scarlet dragon. Perhaps not as large as traditional dragons, but large enough to be terrifying.

"By the Valar," Tauriel whispered.

Fleur gave a defeated noise from beneath them and slowly circled back down to the ground, aiming for the speck of light that was their unextinguished campfire. Tauriel and Glorfindel got off her back somewhat shakily, the dragon roaring triumphantly overhead. Fleur returned to her human form and smiled awkwardly at them.

"Sorry," Fleur shrugged. "I have an affinity for birds, given my ancestry, but it also means I can barely turn into anything else."

"That was still fun," Tauriel smiled brightly. "Thank you, Lady Fleur."

"You're welcome," Fleur smiled back and shrugged slightly. "I had fun, too."

Eventually, Harry returned - silently, somehow - to their campground. Arwen was flushed and beaming as she slid off the dragon's spined back. Harry returned to normal and looked at Fleur smugly, to which she simply rolled her eyes disinterestedly.

"I'm going to sleep," Harry sighed. "That took a lot out of me."

"Me, too." Fleur yawned. "Goodnight, everyone."

Fleur and Harry rolled down next to each other and went to sleep. Arwen and Tauriel looked to Glorfindel as if in askance, and he nodded. The two elf-maidens also went to sleep - although unlike the Men they slept with their eyes wide open (both Harry and Fleur had expressed their discomfort at that. Men were strange). He would keep watch tonight. Though they were close to the protected territory of the bearer of Nenya, only a fool would sleep without a guard.

And the sorcerers deserved to rest. They had performed miracles for them, after all.

* * *

**Three Days Later**

"Fucking finally," Harry grumbled. "I can't see why we didn't just apparate and be done with it. It's not as if the people of this world still don't know if we exist or not."

"It was a nice experience," Fleur said. "It's not often I can drag you outside to do some hiking."

"We've been hiking for years at this point," Harry continued to grumble. "All the way from the Far North, down the Grey Mountains and now towards Lothlorien. I still think it's more walking than is necessary."

"But we're on horseback."

"And the horses have been walking the entire time rather than running," Harry sighed. "Even without the aid of magic this trip could have finished in a third of the time."

"You didn't enjoy the views, Harry?" Fleur smiled. "Because I did. It has such beautiful landscapes - and none of it tarnished by concrete or steel."

"I enjoyed it for maybe the first two days, three if I'm being generous. Then it got boring."

"We are nearing Lady Galadriel's abode," Glorfindel called.

"You know dwarves tell scary stories about this place? They think there's a dangerous, short-tempered witch in this forest." Harry glanced at Fleur. "It's silly, but I guess there's some truth to it now."

Tauriel watched Harry duck underneath a fireball that came flying in his direction (the fireball continued along its merry path and violently exploded against a rock). He did that smirk, the one where it was clear that he knew he was annoying the other and enjoying it. Tauriel had become rather familiar with that smirk over the past few years, after all. Arwen simply blinked and ignored them. Valar, did she feel emotions at all?

"I bet Harry will be beaten up by Celeborn sometime during our stay," Fleur muttered.

"Unfortunately, I don't think anyone would bet against you on that," Tauriel muttered back.

As they continued on their 'path', if it could even be called that anymore considering how narrow and barely visible it became, the trees became larger and more twisted, and began to feel more primal. It would have been impossible to sense for an ordinary Man, and it was certainly difficult to sense for an Elf as well, but the trees were brimming with mystic energy as they approached Lothlorien, feeding upon the inhabitants' magic.

 _Welcome to our home, Tauriel of Greenwood_.

Tauriel flinched and, to her shame, everyone noticed. She knew that the voice must have been Lady Galadriel, but it was still jarring to hear it. She had heard others' voices in her mind before - often Lady Fleur's, sometimes Harry's, as they practiced Occlumency - but those were in controlled situations. And her knowledge of basic Occlumency meant she understood the potentially dangerous implications of hearing another's voice in her head.

"Is something wrong?" Glorfindel asked.

"No, nothing." Tauriel shook her head. "Lady Galadriel welcomed me in. I was surprised, was all."

Fleur and Harry looked at each other, then shrugged. "I didn't hear anything," Fleur said to him. "Either she's not speaking to me or my Occlumency barriers are too high. I thought I'd had them down."

Harry hummed. They continued through the forest, and Tauriel gaped at the shimmering golden trees in wonder. Lothlorien was said to be the hearth of dreams, and she ws hard-pressed to disagree; the whole place looked like a setting out of a children's tale. Glorfindel suddenly stopped, and Tauriel nearly walked into his back. The usually stoic Arwen's face twisted into a mirthful smile.

"Grandmother! Grandfather!"

With that, she charged into the arms of Lady Galadriel, for whom Glorfindel had paused. She wore an amused smile as she squeezed Arwen close. When Arwen pulled away, she stepped one step to the right to squeeze her grandfather Celeborn in a similar manner. Celeborn threw his arm around the girl's shoulder as he appraised the rest of the party.

"Lord Glorfindel, always a pleasure to see you," he said, inclining his head. Glorfindel bowed respectfully back. "Tauriel of Greenwood. Fleur Delacour, and Harry Stark."

At the rather bland introduction, Harry and Fleur glared daggers at Celeborn, who blinked at their hostility. Galadriel smiled slightly. "Harry Stark, Lord of Houses Black, Potter, Peverell, Delacour, and Pancakes, former President of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, Doctor of Philosophy in Architectural, Chemical, and Mechanical Engineering, Chemistry, Physics and Astrophysics, former Rear Admiral of the Royal Navy, and 3-time Olympic Curling Gold Medalist."

Galadriel turned to Fleur. "And she is, of course, Fleur Delacour, Lady of Houses Black, Potter, Peverell, Delacour and Lannister, Duchess of Normandy, former Colonel of _Armée de l'Air Française_ , certified military pilot, Oscar for Best Actress (and six nominations), Doctor of Philosophy in Biology, Chemistry, Physics, and Psychology, Doctor of Jurisprudence, and two-times StarCraft II World Champion."

Everyone, including Galadriel herself, stared at the two smug-looking warlocks as she finished. "What does any of that actually mean?" Glorfindel stage-whispered.

"Oh, just forget it," Harry waved at them dismissively. "Just proving a point. Hello, Celeborn, Galadriel."

"Please don't be offended," Tauriel said quickly. "They're always this disrespectful."

"Seems to be that way," Galadriel said with that mysterious smile still present. "Why don't you all come with us, then? I'm sure you must be hungry."

"I hope it's not veggie soup," Harry muttered.

"It's veggie soup," Celeborn confirmed.

"Damn it."


	6. Chapter 6

**T.A. 1960, June**

"But they were, all of them, deceived… for another ring was made."

Harry fought back a yawn. For the safety of this timeline, the four warlocks had agreed to keep their knowledge of Middle-Earth lore for themselves. That meant that Lady Galadriel was telling them all about Sauron and how dangerous the bugger was. At least her voice was nice, he thought. He glanced to his side and saw that Fleur was wearing a serious expression that hadn't wavered once during the storytelling. Only three other people knew what this expression actually meant; she'd retreated into her mind-palace to think about more interesting things.

Harry looked at the other members of the group. Gandalf was there, smoking away on his presumably cannabis-filled pipe, judging by the fact he always spoke in riddles that for one, didn't make sense and two, only he seemed to find funny. There was hobo-Gandalf, AKA Radagast the Brown, and being him was a very impressive achievement indeed because Gandalf himself was pretty darn close to homelessness.

There was Lord Elrond, who was an impressive dude. He was what a _real_ elf should be like, Harry decided. Ice-cool, intelligent, wise, and no slouch in combat either. He'd seen some real shit, and come off stronger and smarter from it. He also had patience wider than all of Arda. Of course, that didn't stop Harry from annoying him by making innuendos regarding his daughter. Harry briefly wondered what Cirdan the Shipwright was like, who had unfortunately not made it to this meeting.

"In the land of Mordor, in the fires of Mount Doom, the Dark Lord Sauron forged in secret, a _master-ring_ to control all others. And into this ring, he poured his cruelty, his malice, and his will to dominate all life… _One Ring to rule them all_."

Oh, and there was Glorfindel, but he was an afterthought anyway. As if sensing his thoughts, Glorfindel glanced at him with an unreadable expression. Harry smirked at him until he looked away.

"So Sauron poured his soul into this ring?" Harry asked.

Galadriel paused. "Yes."

"So if this ring were to be destroyed…"

"He would find his very soul torn apart before being sent to Mandos' Hall."

"I'm sorry, but what? While he's completely evil with no real reason apparently, he didn't strike me as an idiot. During which point of this process could he have thought, 'hmm, I'll place the most vulnerable aspect of my existence into a little trinket that anyone could theoretically destroy'?"

"If I must guess, I believe it was because he needed to create a link in between the gifted rings and himself, and it is difficult if not impossible to create a sympathetic link between an object and something of non-existence," Gandalf supplied helpfully.

"I already knew that, _nerd_ ," Harry dismissed. Gandalf rolled his eyes. "But instead of showing it off, why didn't he just swallow it or something?"

"He is not the type to work from the shadows if he can avoid it," Lord Elrond sighed. "He would prefer to have the glory and attention."

"So yet another villain falls to his own ego," Harry said. "Why can't we have an interesting villain? Don't get me wrong, Sauron seems like a total badass from the way you describe him, being nine foot tall and all dark iron and whatever, but why can't we have a villain that actually makes us think? You know, like Hannibal Lecter?"

"Who?" Glorfindel asked.

"Oh, it was this one bloke who enjoyed eating man-meat," Harry shrugged, and Glorfindel looked horrified. So did everyone else, actually. "What?"

"I am glad I did not come from your world," Gandalf muttered.

"By the way, I completely forgot to ask, but where's Sorryman?" Harry asked.

"Saruman was not enthused at the idea of meeting the creators of the Snowfolk," Galadriel sighed. "So displeased, in fact, that he asked us not to contact him for his advice unless we rejected you both."

"Really," Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Do you think we can get by without his council?"

"Probably," Glorfindel shrugged. Gandalf and Radagast looked mutinous at Glorfindel's comment.

"I can sense that both of you are not… entirely malicious beings," Galadriel said carefully, addressing Harry and Fleur. "And I suspect that both of you are willing to aid our fight against darkness. However, I would like you to confirm it. Harry, Fleur, will you fight with us? For the freedom of the races of Middle-Earth?"

Fleur jolted out of her trance. "Yes, of course," she recovered smoothly. "I'm willing to help out here and there."

Harry shrugged. "Depends. How will I be compensated for my services?"

Everyone stared at him. "You are also part of this world, are you not?" Radagast asked. "Surely you wouldn't demand payment for your own fate?"

Harry gave a shiteating grin. "Sorry, Greenpeace, but Fleur and I are both visitors of this world who are capable of leaving just as easily as we came here in the first place. If I wanted, I could moon the lot of you and leave all of you to your inevitable doom."

Galadriel gave a tired smile to a calm but angry Elrond, who had made to open his mouth to retort. "Calm, my dear Lord Elrond. Harry's jests are… in poor taste, but he will not abandon us without good reason. I can sense his soul."

Harry's head snapped back to the gorgeous elf-GILF. "How are you reading my soul, exactly? My mind is on complete lockdown. A metaphorical tick wouldn't have enough space to squeeze through."

Galadriel only smiled serenely. "Would you like me to prove it to you? I sense that you do. I like the bracelet you're wearing, Lady Fleur."

Fleur blinked and glanced at her right wrist, which held a bracelet made of ivory beads. "Thank you."

"Ah, yes. It was made of one of the northern tribesmen," Galadriel exclaimed. "I did not think there was anyone living so far north."

"What?" Harry sat up straight, stunned. "How the hell did you know that?"

"You are old and powerful, Harry," Galadriel smiled. "But I am more than twice as old as you are."

"You also use a magic ring," Harry muttered under his breath.

"And you do not use a wand? Or staff?" Galadriel countered.

"Yeah, yeah. I get your point," Harry sighed. Inwardly, he shuddered. He hadn't even felt the lightest touches of legilimency on his mind. He didn't know if this was because Galadriel had a different kind of mind-magic, being and Elf and all, or because she was simply too powerful and too skilled for him to detect. This was unfair! He even had that stupid Riddle horcrux in his noggin for a while, so why shouldn't he have the advantage?

Harry glanced to his right, and Fleur met his eyes. The two of them shared a soul-bond; it wasn't as romantic as people thought it was, it was just another contingency that the two of them had created. It was similar to a horcrux - it took the destruction of both Fleur's and Harry's souls to decidedly end either of their lives once and for all, which was how they'd remained immortal - but while a horcrux was borne out of hatred and egomania, a soul-bond was made of unwavering trust and fraternal love.

One of the little known side-effects of a soul-bond was a limited telepathy channel between the two souls. Words were too human a concept for a soul-conversation, so it turned out more like a smattering of memories and emotions. It worked well enough. In less than an instant, Fleur would receive Harry's concerns that there were enough entities in this world powerful enough to rival them, and even decimate them, that they may not make it out safely. In turn, Harry received Fleur's soft assurances that everything would be okay, and the sensation of contentment, relaxation, and love.

He'd be damned if Galadriel could peek into _that_ conversation.

Galadriel gave no signs of having heard, however, and she continued to explain where they might find the ring. It all amounted to, 'it fell in a river, and we have no idea how far its traveled in like, two thousand years.' Harry was pretty sure he could just use 'Point me, One Ring' and fix everyone's problems in about a week, but that would mean no awesome adventures with Legless and the Once and Future King! Harry quickly banished that thought into the deepest corners of his mind before Galadriel could detect that thought and tried to think of something that would distract from it.

"So, Galadriel, it must be kind of boring when your husband won't, ah, entertain you for hundreds of years at a time," Harry began. "If you're looking for a bit of harmless fun, I'd always be willing to humor you."

Gandalf spluttered like the nerd that he was; why did Katie and Ron bother with him again? Radagast looked like he would dive under the table at the slightest motion. Elrond looked aghast, Glorfindel was groaning and slamming his forehead against the table repeatedly. Fleur grinned toothily.

Galadriel herself was smiling. "Why, I would be joyed to perhaps share a game of chess with you, Master Harry. I must admit my husband and I have not played it in a while. Perhaps I should let him observe?"

"Chess?" Harry scoffed, even as a few members looked amazed that Galadriel hadn't smote down the impudent Man on the spot. "There are better games than that. And I'm not saying that just because Ron beats me every bloody time we play."

Gandalf chuckled. "What would you suggest, then?"

Harry and Fleur looked at each other. "Uno?" Harry suggested, even as Fleur reached her arm into the Wardrobe and plucked out a deck.

"How do we play?" Gandalf seemed enthusiastic, good man. Maybe Ron and Katie had already given him a taste of Earth entertainment?

Fleur quickly explained the rules. Glorfindel blinked, then said he was in. Elrond shrugged and joined. Radagast bowed into peer pressure, because of course he did. Everyone then looked at Galadriel.

She shrugged daintily. Harry hadn't known a woman as regal as her shrugged, ever. "Very well. I shall join."

It was fucking intense. There was no other way to describe it. The first few rounds were done as practice, to acclimate the new players to the rules. Then, Galadriel started reading everyone's minds and taking stock of their cards (Harry only suspected, and Galadriel denied it, and all the Galadriel fanboys in the room claimed that she would never do such a thing, but her smug smile said otherwise), Fleur started using her allure on full blast to distract everyone in the game, to which only Galadriel and Harry were completely immune. Eventually, Harry decided to just wandlessly charm all of his cards into +4 cards and clobber the shit out of Gandalf, who was sitting on his left.

"At least we didn't play Monopoly," Fleur said pleasantly as everyone glared at each other.

* * *

**T.A. 1960, July**

The White Council had been supremely unproductive; they had nine meetings in total, during which the denizens of Middle Earth learned to play: Go Fish, Scrabble (both Harry and Fleur did quite well even compared to people that had been speaking Westron for hundreds of years), Risk (take your knowledge of strategy and shove it up your arse, Elrond!), Monopoly (this ended in a fistfight between Harry and Glorfindel while the others egged them on), and a short-lived game of Twister (in which Fleur tried to get a peek up Galadriel's skirt and got an eyeful up Gandalf's instead), and a session of Mario Kart. They also played a game of Texas Hold'Em, but Fleur wisely insisted they play without stakes because of the resident mind-reader/precognitive that would undoubtedly cheat.

It was actually a very fun bonding session for all of them, and Fleur thought it had gone far better than it had any right to. If this council was all about being uppity and Shakespearean and boring like Fleur suspected it would have been if neither her nor her husband were invited, then everyone would have left after having made literally no progress and having wasted time. But with them, though, Fleur was certain everyone left feeling close to each other, and happier too.

Radagast, for example, had finally come out of his shell and had improved his social abilities and his self-confidence, finally able to project his own opinion and not go along with whomever was speaking the most pompously in the room. Both Elrond and Gandalf were really chill guys once you got to know them, and Harry had invited them to a pub crawl in Bree as soon as he decided to visit Rivendell, to which the two of them, shockingly, agreed with enthusiasm.

Glorfindel's bond with both Harry and Fleur came ever closer. Though Fleur constantly made fun of him for being all brawn and no brains, Glorfindel didn't survive so long - well actually, he _had_ died once, but whatever - without being cunning and intelligent. He was a keen student of philosophy, it seemed.

And Galadriel… Fleur enjoyed speaking to Arwen and Tauriel both, but they were immature in their own ways. Fleur sincerely enjoyed speaking to Galadriel as equals, and she suspected Galadriel felt the same way. And if she were ever in need of a mentor, Galadriel would be there to support her. It was a strange sensation; after all, she was one of the most learned people in her own world since two thousand years ago - who was there for her to mentor under?

She and Harry must have made a greater impression on Lady Galadriel, possibly one of the most powerful beings on this world, than they'd imagined, because the latter invited them both to remain in her kingdom so she could keep their companionship for a while longer. The two had agreed; Harry used a projection-casting technique, creating a _patronus_ that mimicked his real body, and sent it to Elvenking Thranduil to thank him for his hospitality. Fleur doubted he'd mind; if someone like Lady Galadriel invited you to stay, socially, you weren't allowed to say no.

Galadriel, being a princess both literally and personality-wise, she turned out to be a terrible cook. Well, that was what you got when you had servants to cater for your every whim - Fleur had been like that for a while too. It had been a shock when Fleur learned Harry could cook (and absolutely amazing Indian foods - he'd practiced this especially because of Vernon's slightly racist tendencies) and clean like a professional housekeeper.

Regardless, that meant when Galadriel and Fleur pulled out their oatmeal raisin cookies out from the transfigured stove, it was smelling a little like charcoal and death. Fleur hesitantly picked up one cookie and took a nibble. She spat it out, and dropped the cookie. The cookie landed on one of the tiles in Galadriel's courtyard and cracked the stone. Galadriel pretended not to notice that.

"Maybe we can try things that don't require special techniques," Fleur suggested. "Techniques like, uh, using an oven."

"Yes," Galadriel agreed with a sardonic smile. "Perhaps we can try making those peanut butter sandwiches you informed me of previously. I believe I may be able to create those."

Fleur gave an awkward grin. "That's the spirit. Think positive."

Galadriel decided her cooking endeavors were done for the day (and thank goodness, Fleur thought in the deepest levels of her heart) and crossed to the other side of the courtyard, where she'd laid out a thin, reed mattress over the tiles. She sat down on one end, gracefully crossing her legs beneath her. Fleur mimicked her motion and sat down opposite her.

Fleur and Galadriel had made a trade of sorts. Fleur would teach Galadriel things she'd learned in her own world, even just telling stories; Galadriel would reciprocate by teaching her advanced mind magics, including telepathy and prescience. Harry decided not to partake in these meetings, instead spending time with Lord Celeborn and Lord Glorfindel to learn skills of a more martial bent, and learn the secrets of elfin smithing.

"Your husband is a frighteningly adept _Legilimens_ , as you call it, both through natural aptitude and much experience," Galadriel had said. "He may even be strong enough to enter my mind and combat me on equal terms. However, legilimency is a more limited form of clairvoyance; after all, you need to be in the vicinity of a target - always a single individual - and individual minds are always limited to their own memories and experiences. Prescience will allow you to glimpse the nature of entire cities, armies, even entire worlds should you gain the power and skill to do so."

"How far into the future can you see?" Fleur had asked curiously.

"I can perhaps reliably see up until later in the day," Galadriel had answered. "If guests arrive at my kingdom's borders, I am able to tell friend or foe before they are spotted by my scouts. Apart from that, I cannot say - it will all depend on how far I try to see, and how massive an event becomes."

"What about distance?"

"If nobody were to interfere, I would be able to see across thousands of miles."

Fleur shook the memory from her mind and entered a meditative trance as Galadriel had instructed her to do. Opposite her, the Lady of the Golden Wood was doing the same, allowing her mind to drift away from the physical world and approach the curious intersection between reality and irreality known as the Void. Fleur's spirit soared in the Void, movement in this realm being a trick she'd learned recently.

The Void was a twisted mirror of the real world, and was a place likely not fit for mortals; it had taken Fleur hours to even get used to the realm. Her eyes and ears and nose were all screaming at her brain, telling her that everything they were seeing/hearing/smelling was _corrupt_ , was abnormal. It wasn't like the Void had inverted colors or lighting or anything, but it somehow wasn't unlike that either. She could now not only feel, but also see the magic. And many other things.

One of the most obvious things - to Fleur, at least - was a golden thread that connected to her semi-avian spirit form (it was more like her shape was flickering between that of a human and a transformed Veela) and leading off elsewhere in the Golden Wood. Her soul-bond with Harry. And while Galadriel could see it - especially since she seemed to share a variant of a soul-bond of her own with Lord Celeborn - she couldn't read anything they sent through the bond. Which was good to know.

Everything else, though, was nowhere near as comforting. In her sprite-like form, Galadriel held domain of the Golden Wood, and while its borders were murky and wisps of shadows clung to it, the insides were rich with Galadriel's magic, and quite safe. Whenever she, under Galadriel's guidance, stepped out of Lothlorien, she could see many more things that made her empty her stomach the first few times she'd seen them. Emotions, namely, and the history of events. Life, death, suffering, and meager amounts of joy in comparison to misery.

Fleur and Galadriel sped through the sky of the Void, which unlike the real world that had a blue-tinted view, was more violet in nature and scattered with gigantic nebulae millions of light-years wide instead of being full of stars. The ground flew past her, but time felt more relative; she might be traveling very slow for all she knew and simply feel fast. The fact that she could sense everything on the ground despite this speed helped to reinforce this feeling.

She spied what appeared to be a cloud of ash, spiraling around the ground. With it came the sensation of hate, pain, but mostly the sensation of inferiority and decay. Those were orcs, as Fleur had learned. Their very existence was suffering; they were once elves, but were twisted into dark creatures, lacking all the glory and martial might of their former selves. Unlike elves, they were no longer immortal, were in constant pain, were disfigured by sunlight. A single true elf was worth at least a hundred orcs. Orcs had been bred to be disposable - and the orcs knew that, having been drilled into their very mind. They were, as much as they were sick and twisted, depressed.

Then, there was the sensation of death. In a pre-industrial world, conflict was hardly the biggest thief of life. Sickness, starvation, and even childbirth - the very act of giving life - could be dangerous in this world. And it showed. Every so often Fleur could smell the rot, decaying flesh, with the metallic aftertaste of blood as they passed places of death, as they passed graves. It didn't linger too long, although some places, it lasted longer than they had any right to.

For example, despite Galadriel's suggestions otherwise, Fleur had asked her to take her to the Dead Marshes. The swampland had seen perhaps the greatest battle to have ever occurred in Middle-Earth - the Battle of Dagorlad, where in S.A. 3434, the Last Alliance of Men and Elves clashed against the forces of Sauron close two thousand years ago. Despite this being so far back in history that it may as well become legend, the marshes smelled of so much death and suffering that Fleur had fallen unconscious and had needed to be dragged back into reality by a concerned Galadriel.

_Do not be conspicuous_ , Galadriel's spirit whispered to Fleur. _There are ancient things that lurk here far greater and older than any beast in Middle-Earth_.

It was during these moments that Fleur could appreciate just how powerful Galadriel was. Clairvoyance and precognition were difficult, but not unheard of, in her own world. Galadriel's magic, especially reinforced by the Ring of Water, was also very powerful, Fleur was quite certain she, if not her then Harry, could defeat her in direct magical combat. After all, Harry was potentially an entire order of magnitude stronger than she was, although they'd never really tested this due to the fear of destroying each other in the process.

However, the ability to walk within the realm of gods and demons? To walk hidden between titans that would destroy a being of reality as a mere afterthought, and use this power to increase the range of their Sight, was terrifying and impressive. Middle-Earth was dangerous, yes, and the material world had great dragons, giant spiders, creatures wreathed in shadow and flame. All of these could be fought against. The Void, however, contained beings from long before Arda's creation that could destroy her being with a mere thought. Fleur was thankful that she didn't have access to the immaterial world one step beyond the Void; the idea of what might be lurking there terrified her.

_Can you fight the things that inhabit this place?_ Fleur asked her mentor.

_I could, perhaps, fight on even terms with one of the lesser evils the Corruptor has birthed. However, one of his greater evils, and any of the evils that have existed before him, I would likely perish in trying_.

This place was fucked.

_Will I be safe here?_ Fleur finally asked. _Will Harry be safe?_

Galadriel's spirit paused. _Perhaps. You are powerful in your own right, and I believe with experience you will be able to navigate the Void well. You would be able to escape any threats from the real world by dipping into the Void, provided they know not how to chase you in there. Your husband, however, I sense is abnormally powerful, capable of bending fate to his very whim if he so wished. I suspect that it is both his cloak of death, and his skill in wielding this power, that allows him to be so potent._

Fleur gave a mental frown. While they had done research on his status as so-called 'Master of Death', they hadn't actually gotten much. After all, any information they found regarding those was simply mythology at best, and folk tales at worst. However, each item was supremely powerful, and they had entertained the possibility that they might be omnidimensional in origin. Galadriel had some surprisingly insightful comments to share about it - but now was the time to learn to navigate the Void, not to discuss Harry's power.

_I recognize this place_ , Fleur suddenly thought. There were tall, snow-covered peaks, although in the Void water looked more like crude oil and snow looked a bit like mud. There were several thousand lights concentrated on two of the many peaks of the mountain range that stretched out before her.

_Indeed you would_ , Galadriel said. _We have arrived at the Grey Mountains. I suspect the sprites you see below are the Snowfolk. They burn bright. They have also grown since I last checked on them. They have matured, it seems, gaining wisdom and tenacity._

_You've been checking on them?_

_I check on many things. An entirely new race that could potentially tip the balance of Middle-Earth's struggle between good and evil is something I must monitor closely_.

That made sense. Fleur was confident though that the Snowfolk would remain on the side of good, even if mostly pacifistic. The only real firepower they could afford to muster right now was Alduin, who lazed around with the Snowfolk at this time. Although Alduin was admittedly _a lot_ of firepower. Alduin had been engineered as Fleur and Harry's ultimate insurance for any major threats they encountered around the multiverse; she was powerful enough to literally end worlds. Her title of 'World-Eater' was not wholly inaccurate.

Fleur and Galadriel continued to drift around the Void, covering great distances in the spans of minutes. Or perhaps days. Regardless, they stopped in the Shire, a region inhabited by Hobbits and not accessed by many humans or elves at this time. If Fleur could smile, she would have done so - she basked in the warm yellow rays of contentment like it was sunshine.

_The Hobbits are quiet folk who prefer to live in peace,_ Galadriel explained. _They have no real ambition as men do, or any special greed for materialistic things like Dwarves. If you exclude food and pipe-weed, of course. As such, the threads of destiny are woven lightly here. It will be easier to see them_.

Under Galadriel's instruction, Fleur tried to de-focus her sight. As the unreality warped, she could see Galadriel's avatar flicker from a mere spark, to her true elfin body, to a great and terrible sorceress. Other things flickered in and out of her senses, too, that would immediately disappear from her sight should she try to focus on them. It was like trying to see ghosts.

Hazy images that weren't previously there began to form in the Void; too many dimensions for her to count, the threads of fate that Galadriel must have been talking about. They connected anything and everything all throughout history and the future just like string art, with every single thing that ever occurred in this universe - or perhaps all universes - becoming the pins to which the strings were attached. At Galadriel's level, it was possible to follow the trail of strings to read events in the future or in the past. More distant events were more faded, more difficult to find. Fleur was certain she could only see the most immediate of events.

_You can see them_ , Galadriel hummed happily. _Good. Now, without focusing still, reach out and see into the threads. The information is there to be freely offered; do not try to force them to yourself. They will become invisible when you do so_.

Fleur did as she was told. She gently floated towards the nearest string and plunged herself in it, all while keeping her mind carefully blank and allowing the information to flood into her mind via osmosis.

_Adamanta Patch. A young Hobbit, only twenty-one years old. A teenager equivalent in human terms. Bit of a rebellious phase (though subdued compared to humans). Her little rebellion for today consists of disobeying her mother's instructions to be home before six o'clock sharp. She plans to return exactly five minutes after that. However, the light of the sky darkens a marginal amount that she fails to see a rock placed on the road that she would have otherwise had she gone home five minutes earlier. She trips, falls and_ -

_No!_ Fleur cried out, but it happened anyway. Adamanta fell, and scraped her knee quite badly, tearing the hem of her dress in the process. She cried out, and Fleur watched sullenly as the cute Hobbit-girl's lips trembled and she visibly struggled to hold back tears. From the cache of information that had seemingly been inserted into Fleur's mind, Fleur knew that Adamanta had just damaged her favorite dress, although her mother would be able to fix it tomorrow.

_You have not yet the strength to change fate_ , Galadriel said softly. _You may have been able to stop her if you were capable of telepathy, as I am. You are not as advanced, however - I will teach you once you are capable of adequately navigating the Void and seeing the Threads._

_Why didn't you stop her?_ Fleur asked.

_It is a good lesson for her to listen to her mother_ , Galadriel declared.

Fleur thought for a moment, looking to rebuke, but paused. She had gone so long without a maternal figure, but she vaguely remembered her very first life. She had hated being coddled at the time, but she missed her mother. Her mother, whom she could barely remember the name of, at this point. It… started with the letter A, didn't it? If only she could spend more time with her, for the small price of a scraped knee. If only her mother were there to hold her, to comfort her through the pain, to teach her to repair her broken dress.

As Fleur continued to reminisce, Galadriel silently watched over her, even through the taste and scent of salt radiating from the warlock.

* * *

Contrary to what Harry had said weeks earlier, chess was not a bad game. It was clear Lord Harry thought so too, because he was completely absorbed before the chess set before him. Celeborn was at first amazed at what magic could accomplish; the little figurines making up the chess set could speak to him, shouting at him to make certain moves and others. After five minutes, it had gotten exhausting, and he'd had to ask Harry to silence the lot of them.

"Pawn to E5," Harry intoned, and the pale pawn in question raised his sword and struck down the dark knight.

Celeborn examined the table. If he played this right, he may be able to corner Harry into losing his queen. After that, pursuing his king would become trivial. "Bishop to E5," he commanded, and the bishop in question reclaimed the tile he'd held a turn before.

Harry was good at chess, but not as good as the elves he regularly played with. His wife didn't count. She was a genius at the game, but… let's just say that Celeborn believed Harry when he claimed Galadriel had cheated during their games at the White Council. He never had proof, of course, but she could be devious like that. It amused him greatly how so many believed her to be the paragon of all that is good, when she could be so petty as to cheat in cards or chess.

"Checkmate," Celeborn finally announced.

Harry breathed out audibly through his nose. He leaned back in his chair. "I'd offer a good game, but judging by the fact you've beaten me three out of three times now, I suspect I'm not a good enough challenge," Harry said, with a little bit of disappointment in his voice. As he had done twice before, a minuscule twitch of his fingers - which were clamped on the armrest of his chair - had the pieces rearrange themselves into position.

"You were quite good," Celeborn replied. "You are better than most I play against. It was entertaining for me; thank you."

"Well, if you're happy with it," Harry shrugged. Celeborn watched curiously as the chessboard disappeared from this world, and into Harry's personal world. It was incredible to think about. Harry obviously never thought of it as anything more than a convenient place to store things, but logically thinking, an accomplishment like that was on par with Eru creating Arda, was it not? Combined with his ability to create life from snow…

It frightened him, how powerful these strangers might be.

Harry was of course a special case. He was significantly stronger than the other three travelers, only one of whom Celeborn had met so far, with the other two having traveled to an entirely different continent to explore it. Celeborn had to admit that the thought of traveling to another continent that wasn't Valinor hadn't ever crossed his mind. Those two warlocks were apparently practicing botany and zoology there, as well as searching for ancient and chaotic magics. Regardless. While Harry was stronger than all of the other three combined, those other three were still powerful enough to change history in their own right. Easily the strongest of Men, could forge entire nations from ashes if they wanted to.

"Lord Celery?" Harry asked. Celeborn started. The nickname itself was a bit annoying at first, but funnily enough, the act of being given a nickname was refreshing and likable. "What's the strongest entity currently existing on Middle-Earth?"

Celeborn frowned. "I am not certain. Why do you ask?"

"Just wondering what the biggest hazard to my health in this place would be," Harry asked. "And don't say 'Alduin'. I already know all the dragonlord's specs."

"I think that is a question better suited to my wife, who is more up-to-date on the news of this world," Celeborn said. "However, there is a necromancer, it seems, to the south of our forest, in Dol Guldur. While they do not seem aggressive, they have fortified themselves within the ancient fortress and are proving difficult to get rid of."

"Hm." Harry rubbed his chin. "Do you want me to nuke them? I've got a stockpile of nuclear weapons."

Celeborn shivered. He'd seen the effects of this 'nuke' from Harry's memories; the image of thousands of acres of forest burning into ashes in less than a second was not pleasant. "No, thank you," he sighed. Then joked, "but perhaps into Mordor, where there is nothing of note that I would prefer survive."

"I'll think about it," Harry grinned. His grin faded. "If you're not offended, though, I'd like to talk about your wife."

Celeborn's eyes narrowed. He'd heard far too many innuendos (and to his pain to admit, some of them were quite funny) to not be suspicious. "What exactly about my wife?"

"Your wife is incredibly powerful," Harry said bluntly. Celeborn relaxed slightly. "Fleur and I have discussed this. We think, in her current state and our current state, she is strong enough to take on Fleur. She isn't as strong as I am, but with her ring, she will give me a good challenge. Her very existence has made us reconsider if we are safe here. In our own world, we were practically gods - there was no threat that we couldn't handle, not to mention the fact we had hundreds of years of experience in subduing every threat we could imagine. In this world? There are far stronger beings in existence, and we don't have the experience in fighting them. Glorfindel has been a great help in that regard; the Balrog-slayer, as dumb as he can occasionally be, has a lot of insight to share." He took a breath. "I'm not worried for myself. I know pain and I welcome it, and I have always been prepared to die; that's what you get for living three thousand years, I suppose. But I am worried for my friends being hurt, as much as they might find my worries unnecessary."

Celeborn nodded. "I understand how you feel. I am always worried for my child whenever she makes her biennial trip to Lothlorien, worried that her presence might draw the gaze of orcs or other unsavory things, even if I do not fear the same dangers for myself when I am in the same position. That is why you wish to know about the threats of this world."

"Precisely," Harry said.

"In that case, it may interest you to discover the history of Arda. In the early histories, we have seen some evils of truly monstrous proportions. Ungoliant, a great spider as large as mountains, was one of the single greatest threats to existence that we have ever encountered, a threat so great that even the Corruptor was afraid. While she eventually devoured herself in her bottomless hunger, she did leave monstrous offspring, some of which survive to this day. Then, there are the beasts that drove Ungoliant back - the Balrogs. Glorfindel would have much to say on this topic, I am certain, but the short of it is that they are fallen Maiar, beings of great power even before they were twisted. The most terrifying part is that the number of remaining Balrogs remain unaccounted for."

"I see," Harry murmured softly. "And what of the Corruptor himself?"

Celeborn made a face. "Surely you are not thinking of fighting him? He has killed hundreds of thousands of his own, and his army millions."

"I'm not that stupid," Harry snorted. "If I ever have to fight him, I'll hide and throw a lot of painful curses at him. We'll see how pretty his face is after I transfigure his red blood cells into caesium."

"What would that do?"

"...would you like to find out?"

Celeborn quickly shook his head sideways. Harry mock-pouted, but didn't seem particularly upset. "It's definitely not pretty. I did that once… I had to move houses because the blood stains just wouldn't come out of the walls and carpet."

Celeborn sighed. Why was his newest friend such a destructive person?

* * *

**T.A. 1965, Feburary**

Queen Gabrielle of the Snowfolk rubbed at her temples. Being a Queen was a curse as much as it was a blessing. For one, she had to do a lot of administrative work; currency was quickly being introduced as miners found silver underneath the second mountain they inhabited, the 'Matterhorn' (Queen Mother Fleur had demanded it be named that, for some reason), especially because Men from the Dale were coming to trade occasionally. Although the Snowfolk didn't have much to trade, since they were still quite new.

Atop her throne, which was literally the highest point on Mont Blanc (another insistence by the Queen Mother), she stared at the rather bedraggled, rough-looking company of Dwarves that were awkwardly standing before the dais. Did she mention that there were Dwarves now in the Grey Mountains? And did she mention that sending miners - nobility, sure, but still miners - as diplomats was a terribly bad idea?

They had bumbled into just about every social faux-pas Gabrielle could think of, and she couldn't even blame them because they were Dwarves, and Dwarves were commonly agreed upon by every other race of Middle-Earth as being thick-headed as they were. Gabrielle realized that Galadriel was probably somewhat biased, but she had still been a wonderful telepathic help the past few years. It also helped that Mother had learned the techniques of voice-throwing from the elfin princess, and would also help her.

"So, lass," the lead dwarf said gruffly (was he really addressing a Queen of a foreign nation like that?). "What have you decided?"

The proposition was that the dwarves would get mining rights in Matterhorn for a percentage of the profits made from the sale of dwarven metalcraft produced with the metal. The dwarves did indeed have better metalcraft than the Snowfolk did, especially combined with the fact they had centuries of experience at it. Of course, the fact that Gabrielle had been addressed as 'lass', and that they'd patronized her in just about every other word they blurted had lost them any goodwill they'd gained by being cute little dwarves.

Gabrielle pondered how to deal with them. She did not want to part with them on bad terms; a war with dwarves was something she hardly needed, and while the dwarves had yet to establish their power here, they were still far more numerous than the Snowfolk. With Alduin's help, they would win any war given to them, but the use of dragon-fire would probably ruin any goodwill they had with the dwarves in general, and probably all the free peoples of Middle-Earth.

But she wanted to show them up. Oh, how she wanted to.

"I am interested in the proposition that you present," she said slowly. "I believe, should I meet with your leader, we would be able to produce a more concrete arrangement, more satisfactory for the both of our people."

The dwarf grunted. "Prince Thrain is too busy to meet with the leader of a village."

That did it. Gabrielle slowly stood from her throne, utilizing her six-foot height to tower over the furry midgets, glowering down at the suddenly nervous dwarves from atop her dais. She stepped forward to the Sword in the Stone, a mystic object Father had created to keep the realm prosperous. She gripped the handle, which could fit three of her hands, and slowly drew it out. The dwarves clutched at their axes and swords as ice silently slid from the stone. The sword was almost as long as her leg, made entirely of ice, and in her grip, the blade hummed with great power. In reality, it was a magic focus, much like her father's wand.

"This it the Blade of Niflheim, the Sword in the Stone," Gabrielle explained to the now-quiet audience. "My Father created this in hope that only the worthy would succeed the throne of this kingdom. There is an inscription on the side. Do you know what it says?" She cleared her throat and held the blade parallel to the ground. "'Whomsoever holds this sword, if they be worthy, shall possess the power of Snow'." She looked at the dwarves. "Well? You step into my realm, treat me like a girl, insult me and my home every step of the way. You forget, however, that my realm is Snow."

The dwarves glanced at each other, then at the straight, simple blade. Gabrielle glared at them and willed the cold to enter the room. The throne room darkened, and the dwarves' heavy breaths became visible as steam. They huddled closer to each other subconsciously, from cold, and possibly from a small measure of fear.

"Return to your prince. Kindly ask of him that I either meet him in person, or I receive more polite emissaries next time."

The lead dwarf, the gruff one, grunted in assent. The others weren't as stubborn, and one clumsily bowed at him before they departed. Gabrielle gave a gentle smile to the one that did, and he blushed. Such cute creatures when they weren't being so annoying. Like teddy bears, if they cleaned out their beards of remnants of food and drink.

* * *

Thrain, son of Nain, first of his name and Prince of Khazad-dum, was examining the massive chamber in the Lonely Mountain. He didn't know of any dwarves that had claimed this mountain for their own, and so he had received permission from Father and come here to forge a realm of his own. It turned out that someone had already been here, as they found a small, but well-made tunnel leading from the side of the mountain into its belly.

The tunnels had been small and unassuming, and the side-room they did find was nothing of note. Cozy was perhaps the best way to describe it - a small room with a small, empty wardrobe, and two Man-sized beds that had the most comfortable mattresses Thrain had ever slept on. But the real surprise had been what was now called the Great Hall by his men.

A chamber wide and deep enough to match the Hall of Stone in Khazad-dum in its dimensions, with a ceiling high enough that Thrain wondered if the entire mountain was hollow. At the far end of the chamber was a giant statue that had at first panicked his men into firing crossbow bolts at it. It had only been after three waves of bolts had clattered harmlessly against the stone statues that they'd realized they weren't living.

Thrain took yet another step forward, approaching the artwork. A set of words in a strange language, yet somehow bewitched for him to be able to understand, had been carved into the floor just behind the armored figure fighting the colossal monster. _The greatest tinker of Men, Iron Man, stands against the beast Leviathan_.

Now, Men were not known for excellent weapons and armor. Or even metalwork in general. Even their kitchen knives were of such poor quality that it may as well be made of stone. But this? The pieces that made up Iron Man's armor was incredibly precise, and he was quite certain that some pieces were too small for eyes to be seen. They did eventually pry the armor off, _gently_ , of the stone statue of Iron Man's true face. A handsome man, his face twisted by exhaustion and pain but still determined to fight.

The metal was unlike anything they had ever seen, but whomever had left the statue and armor had helpfully left a sample of the armor used in the metal, apparently a 'titanium-gold alloy', and samples of their parent metals, titanium and gold. Now gold, the dwarves were intimate with already, but titanium was a curious piece. Lighter than steel, much lighter, but with the right carbon mixtures and right handling, it could be nearly as tough as steel. Which meant thicker slabs of titanium could be used for the same weight as thinner steel plate.

The knowledge of producing this alloy, or even extracting titanium, was not explained, so unfortunately Thrain would not be able to produce this alloy and equip his men with it at this time. The dwarves had gotten off well enough with good steel and dwarven smithing, anyway. But it was an interesting thing. Showed good properties. Even more interesting was the armor itself. It was refined, precise, and had some sort of glowing metal embedded in its chest. It was ridiculously heavy - a dwarf could barely move it, so a Man would not be able to. Iron Man had evidently discovered some sorcery that would allow him to carry more armor than his body should allow.

And then, finally, there was Leviathan. Thrain knew that history and especially art often had a habit of exaggerating, but even considering the exaggeration, Leviathan must have been a might beast indeed. A foe larger than dragons and controlling _water_ as easily as a trained dwarf might control his axe, using water as a weapon with which to drown cities and hammer foes into the ground. Entire _seas_ bending to its whim…

He shuddered. He hadn't heard stories about Leviathan or Iron Man, ever, which must mean that their great battle had taken place far away, long ago. And he was thankful for that. Leviathan was a monster of legend and myth, something like a Balrog, that had no right existing on Middle-Earth. No army would be able to defeat such a creature.

But this was a statue, so it was fine. And he rather liked it - it was detailed, beautiful, and suitably heroic. The hall on its own was magnificent, and though Thrain couldn't take credit of the art, it was something to brag about to outsiders. Father had told him he was being a fool, trying to establish his forces in the Grey Mountains, but it had never been a mistake. Someone, perhaps Iron Man himself, had already built his home here. Thrain would keep it safe and clean until they came back.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get a timeskip! You get a timeskip! Everyone gets a timeskip!

**T.A. 1975, July**

Glorfindel absently patted his horse's neck, soothing him with soft-spoken Elvish words. The horse calmed, glancing at Glorfindel with a beady eye, before tossing its head forward again with a snort. The battle was expected to begin soon. Glorfindel personally didn't enjoy fighting in the dark, but it was more than likely that an army made up primarily of orcs would prefer to fight at night. Under his command were two-thousand and four-hundred Elves of Lindon, all brave and glorious in their elfin might.

"Heya! You must be Glorfindel!"

Glorfindel turned around to find two Men. One was a woman, with raven-dark hair and a warm smile, and the other a redheaded giant of a man, standing almost as tall as Glorfindel himself. Both of them wore worn, but sturdy traveling cloaks over their armor. Glorfindel blinked. The lady was wearing chainmail - she surely didn't expect to participate in the battle?

"Do I know you?" Glorfindel asked warily.

"You might have heard of us, unless Harry and Fleur decided to be little shits and didn't brag about how awesome their bestest friends ever are," the woman snorted.

"You are… Katherine? And Ronald?" Glorfindel blinked. "Have the two of you come to fight?"

Ronald, the redhead, grinned as he hefted a war-staff almost as tall as himself. "Well, we have been off far beyond civilization for some time now, and we wanted to meet you. Plus, what's better for team bonding than a little genocide?"

"I am surprised that Harry and Fleur did not come but you did," Glorfindel said. "Still, it is a pleasure to have you here."

"Harry came down with a cold at the last moment," Ron said, as Katie chuckled. "Fleur stayed with him so he wouldn't be the only one who felt like missing out. He was… rather upset about it, too."

"A bit of deflating his head would do him some good," Glorfindel grumbled. Ron laughed.

"Well, yes, you're right. Ronald Weasley, at your service," Ron said, thrusting out his hand. He and Glorfindel clasped arms.

"Katherine Bell," the woman beamed, shaking Glorfindel's hand enthusiastically. "Wow. You really are as pretty as Fleur said you were."

"Thank you?" Glorfindel shook his head even as he smiled. "So. What could the two of you do to increase our odds of survival?"

They glanced at each other. "We didn't think that far, actually," Katie shrugged. "What's the plan? Are you going with the classic cavalry flanking maneuver? I could probably ride with you guys, and Ron can stay with the infantry."

"How did you-? Ah, _legilimency_ ," Glorfindel muttered. "Please don't."

"Sorry, just getting a hang of the plan. And proving to you that we're actually warlocks," Katie said. "Anyway, I'll ride with you guys because Ron sucks at equestrianism. Also, Ron can be pretty intimidating when he wants to be, so he'll be a massive morale boost for other terrified men."

" _Other_ terrified men?" Ron scoffed. "I'm not scared."

"Sure, whatever you say, Ronnie," Katie smirked. They turned back to Glorfindel. "Anyway, Ron is what you would call a berserker. He's an absolute monster once he starts picking up steam. You see, there was a period in his life where Ron thought that he could get away by seducing the only daughter of a war god… what did you learn, dear?"

Ron grumbled. "Don't tease any gods, even if they were severely weakened due to lack of worship."

"Good, I'm glad you still remember," Katie sighed. "So yeah. Ron is cursed - or blessed, in some people's view - to slowly lose his humanity while he's in battle. Considering what we're up against this time, it might not be a detriment, though."

"As long as he won't harm our own side," Glorfindel said.

"He can differentiate between friend and foe. Right, Ron?" Ron shrugged awkwardly. "...we'll take that as a yes. Just have the men keep a small distance, especially considering the higher his bloodlust, the more unhinged his magic. He still got off easy from his deal, I say."

"You're not doing a very good job of convincing me that having him on the battlefield is a good idea."

"Yeah, he's small fry compared to me anyway," Katie grinned, as Ron glowered. "My magic is a lot cooler than his berserker rage. I can hide your cavalry under magic weaves and I can muffle footsteps. Perfect for a flanking maneuver, am I right?"

"Yes…" Glorfindel rubbed his chin. "That will be extremely useful, actually. How much magic can you do during the battle, Ron?"

"At the beginning, before the initial clash? I should be able to do enough," Ron said. "After that, it will get much more difficult."

"Could you create a bright light in the sky just before the battle begins?" Glorfindel asked. "Not only will it improve visibility for us, it will also hurt the orcs."

"Yeah, I can do that," Ron nodded. "That's a good idea."

"Very well. We predict the battle will begin as the sun disappears. Be ready until then - do you require anything? Food? Armor and weapons?"

"Nothing much," Ron shrugged. "Is there somewhere to sleep?"

Katie and Ron disappeared into the camp, following one of Glorfindel's aides. Glorfindel took a deep breath, and turned, realizing that someone was calling his name. One of his lieutenants. "Yes?"

"An additional two companies have arrived from the Grey Mountains, Lord Glorfindel," the elf said. "Said they are here under orders of Queen Gabrielle, first of her name. There are about one thousand in number, all of them pike infantry. They are marching towards our camp as we speak."

"I see," Glorfindel blinked. "I should visit them. Thank them for their participation."

"Of course, my Lord." The elf turned around and began to guide Glorfindel to the outskirts of camp. Glorfindel followed; reaching the entrance, he came upon a most impressive sight.

Ranks of men sixteen wide marched in complete synchronity as they approached. Half of their members were carrying polearms almost four times long as they were tall, while the other carried ordinary pikes. Their footsteps sounded like the coming of a dragon rather than an army, as perfectly in time as it was.

A bugle called a quick note and the men slammed to a stop. Glorfindel approached, his eyes gazing to the tip of the massive lances, before a man dressed in well-made armor approached. He wore a helmet that had a long black plume on its crown. He removed the helmet and approached.

"Hail, Lord Glorfindel!" He called. "I am General Pollux of the House of Black. We come to the aid of our westerly neighbors in their time of battle!"

"Hail, General Pollux," Glorfindel smiled as he approached. "Some mighty impressive infantry you have here. Have they seen battle before?"

"A skirmish, once or twice, with some wandering orcs, but nothing major," Pollux shrugged. "This will be their first real test in them, but I have faith they'll do well."

"I think they will too," Glorfindel replied, thinking back to the perfect synchronization of the men. "Very good. Let us retreat to our command tent, and you may join our battle planning."

"Excellent," Pollux grinned as he and Glorfindel began to walk.

* * *

Elion, son of Eliur, was no stranger to conflict. As a professional soldier of Gondor, he was tested and proven to be worthy of fighting for his homeland. Of course, this battle was perhaps one of the farthest held from his homeland, but still.

As he marched in a massive army tens of thousands strong, he could only feel nervousness. It was strange - he was marching in a massive army that _should_ have brought him courage and strength, but all he could think of now was the image of a charred battlefield, thousands of men slain with every fell blow of the Witch-King's sword.

The redheaded man noticed his emotions and grunted. "You'll be right. Just focus on surviving and don't let yourself be disarmed."

Elion nodded quickly. The man wasn't a Gondorian, clear by his accent, and neither was he a Gondorian soldier, since his armor, unlike that of his own, was blood-red and decorated with a metal wolf's head on its pauldron. He was also a giant, nearly easily over six feet tall. He carried a wicked-looking poleaxe made of what looked like cold iron. His black cape reached down to his knees.

For whatever reason, the man had been permitted to stand at the very center of their army, even if it meant one less man in the unified Gondorian front ranks. Then there was also the 'Snowfolk', apparently a people that had recently settled in the Grey Mountains, marching right behind the redheaded man with their massive polearms. Their footsteps sounded like claps of thunder; Elion wondered what kind of warriors they would prove themselves to be.

"If you want to live, friend, keep close to me," the redheaded giant said, his braided beard swinging with each step he took. Elion glanced at the man's dark-red, spiked gauntlets, and nodded again. That seemed like some pretty good advice.

"Where are you from, friend?" Elion asked.

"I am from a land very far away. You wouldn't know of it," he replied. "And you?"

"From Gondor," Elion said proudly. "And we now march to restore the Kingdoms of Men from wicked sorcerers."

"Don't underestimate those 'wicked sorcerers'," the man grunted. "They are feared for a reason. If the Witch-King shows his ugly mug in front of us, don't be a hero. I'll take him on."

"You believe you can?" Elion asked, a little suspicious. The man, while intimidating, had not really proved the strength of his words.

"Don't know. But we'll find out," the man grinned. It was somewhat disturbing.

Elion swallowed as the enemy army came into sight. They were coming over the crest of a small hill, with Angmar being hilly as it was. Not an ideal place to fight, he'd faced worse. The orcs marched until the bottom of the hill, about a hundred and fifty feet away from their own line, and stopped. Orcs were never particularly well-disciplined - they were squirming even in their lines, visibly struggling to hold back their bloodlust.

"Merlin, they're ugly," the redheaded man was muttering to himself.

The orcs roared. It wasn't organzied, but with tens of thousands of them roaring at once, it made for a terrifying sound that reverberated across the hills. Elion was trained. He would not break here, even if it was tempting. He'd follow his fellow Men into the jaws of death itself.

"Pathetic!" The redheaded man scoffed so loudly that Elion flinched. No way a Man could raise his voice so far! "We can do one better than them as we always have, isn't that right, lads?" As the Men got over their initial shock, they began jeering in agreement. "We're stronger, more skilled, and more handsome than they are!" A chorus of cheers. Elion felt his lips tugging upward.

"We'll show them what a real chant sounds like!" He said. " _Deus vult!_ "

It took a few tries for them to get it right, but the combined army of Men and Elves picked it up fairly quickly. Beside the man in question, Elion eagerly took up the chant. At one point, the Snowfolk began to slam the butts of their weapons against the ground. Elion and the other Gondorians joined in on the percussion by banging their sword-hilts against their shields.

As far as pre-battle banter went? They were doing very well. The orcs didn't appear so sure of themselves anymore.

_Deus vult!_

A Gondorian horn bellowed, and the infantry began to march. Measured paces, shield-walls forming to prevent arrows from taking down the men prematurely. Beside Elion, the giant man seemed eager, even gleeful as he began to march. Elion turned to him. "What is your name?"

"Call me Ron," he said, his voice now back to normal levels. Then he grinned at him. "Don't die. And try to have fun."

A terribly strange man, but Elion felt a lot more comfortable with his chances of survival with him beside him.

_Deus vult!_

"What does it mean?" Elion asked, as arrows began to fly from the opposite side of the field of battle. "The chant?"

"It translates to, _Valar wills it_ ," Ron said simply. "Or something similar."

Elion nodded before focusing on the enemy once again. The army continued to march; occasionally, a man was struck down by an arrow, but the forces of the Free People continued to march forward. A hundred yards turned into fifty, then twenty-five, and at an unseen signal, the line charged.

The sound was deafening. Thousands of shields battered against each other, and Elion could somehow still hear the hundreds of shields splintering or shattering in the clash. The snarling of orcs, the coppery scent of blood watering the fields. He raised his shield, and the axe heading towards his chest glanced off the edge, sending it skittering to the side. Unbalanced, the orc did not have an opportunity to dodge Elion's sword-thrust into the unarmored gap on its neck. Another orc stepped forward to take its place.

Elion continued to fight. He wouldn't die here. He blocked a strike from the next orc, only to blink in surprise as a sound similar to shearing cloth accompanied the sudden bisection of his immediate opponent. He blinked, and spared a glance sideways, finding Ron enjoying himself immensely, it seemed.

" _C-c-c-combo!_ " He was cackling to himself, as three more orcs fell under one mighty swing of his blade. Ron, all on his own, had created a pocket in the enemy ranks devoid of orcs due to the sheer speed with which he was dispatching them. Elion felt somewhat invigorated by this display; he thrust hard into the faceplate of the next orc to approach him, stabbing through its brain.

"Come at me, you cock-guzzling sons of whores!" Ron roared. "Fight me! Bleed at my feet, die by my hand!"

The orcs were definitely not as enthusisastic; Ron snarled in anger as he was forced to chase after targets rather than they come to him. Elion could only stare in astonishment at the man. It could have been a trick of his eyes, but it looked like he wore a blood-red halo like some vengeful Maia feeding on the deaths of these abominations.

"Shit!" Elion stumbled back as an orc wielding a morningstar managed to strike his shield. The shield blocked most of the damage, but it was quite a big orc and quite a big mace; his arm was full of pins and needles. He jumped to the side as the orc dumbly embedded his weapon into the soil, and Elion shouldercharged him, staggering him and releasing his grip on his weapon. After that, he stabbed up underneath the orc's chestplate and kicked him over.

How many orcs had he managed to kill? He was fairly certain he'd gotten at least fifteen, most of them during the initial clash where the two opposing ranks were still somewhat coherent. Now, the participating population had thinned out and the ranks weren't so clear anymore as soldiers from either side began fighting more one-on-one fights rather than as groups. He stumbled back a few steps and tried to take in the battlefield.

The Snowfolk, despite being inexperienced, were faring very well. The front few ranks hacked and slashed with shortswords, but the remainder of them fanned out their massive lances to crate bristles like on a hedgehog, checking the enemy. Archers had stationed themselves on two nearby hills, sending out volley after volley into the reserve ranks of the orcs. Elion could see Men, Elves, and even the usually introverted Halflings on that hill.

As the sky continued to get darker, choked by smoke, Elion came to the decision that it definitely was not a trick played on his eyes; Ron was definitely wearing some sort of blood-aura that let him glow in the darkness. It seemed to pulse with every enemy combatant that he cut down. Also, the blood on his armor quickly turned to steam, and rose into the air. Combined with the aura, it looked like he was on fire.

" _Blood for the Blood God!_ " He roared, as his polearm cleaved another orc in half, tearing through armor like linen.

He was a literal whirlwind of death. Somehow, he was inhumanly fast, inhumanly strong, and had inhuman resilience; Elion could see arrows piercing into his armor but also into the gaps in-between; Ron, despite his ever-increasing battle-lust, had undoubtedly taken a lot of damage already. Elion gaped as the enemy sent an eleven-foot tall troll at Ron, armored in spiked plate and wielding a spiked club.

The man stabbed his weapon into the ground, and charged barehanded at the troll. And started _wrestling_ with it! And he was winning! Ron let loose a massive roar that was equally as loud as that of the troll as they entered a contest of strength; Elion saw the straps of Ron's right gauntlet pop loose as his muscles doubled in thickness. With a final grunt, Ron spun, pulling down with his left arm and pushing up with his right, leading to the troll strumbling onto its knees as it lost balance. Ron let go of the troll's massive hands and wrapped his arm around its neck. The troll bucked and panicked, until with a snort of effort, Ron twisted its head to an unnatural angle with a series of crackles.

"By the Valar," Elion breathed.

"That can't be it!" Ron roared at the terrified enemy. "Come on! Fight me! Hurt me! Make me bleed!"

Elion shook his head and focused on taking the enemy down. The battle was not yet over.

* * *

Glorfindel stared at the aftermath of the battle.

It had gone well - extremely well, in fact. The Angmari army had been completely decimated in the previous night. For every one Man or Elf felled in battle, at least thirty orcs were destroyed. The Witch-King of Angmar had sadly escaped him, fleeing to Mordor, but the destruction of the entirety of Angmar was a decisive strike against the forces of darkness.

Katie and Ron rode beside Glorfindel, on sturdy beasts - Ron's armor must have been too heavy for any ordinary warhorse. As they rode back to camp, Glorfindel's heart fluttered at the sight of a familiar woman.

"Fleur!" Katie grinned, jumping off of her horse and tackling the blonde into a hug. "Come to see our handiwork?"

"Hello, Katie," Fleur said, amused. "And yes. I forced Harry to stay in bed."

"Poor him," Katie said without a hint of sympathy. "So! The battle went very well. The Witch-King unfortunately escaped because Glorfindel can't shoot a bow, but I did confirm that the Patronus charm is effective against them, though not by much." Her face lost her levity and became serious. "The Witch-King was a lot stronger than I expected. Definitely stronger than either myself or Ron, although I suspect the two of us together can take him down if we're clever about it."

"Oh? How so?" Fleur asked, also serious.

"Strong magical resistance. I suspect mundane spells like _Stupefy_ won't work on him. He doesn't have biological functions like we do, so any spell that targets the nervous system, for example, are out. Physical damage will affect him, but won't necessarily hurt him. I tried an AK on him. That didn't work either - his life-force, or whatever remains of it, is in that ring-horcrux of his."

"I see," Fleur hummed. "He wasn't wearing the ring, I suppose?"

"Couldn't tell. He had gauntlets on, and we didn't see it on top of them."

"He can be hurt with enchanted weapons, funnily enough," Ron said, as he dropped to his own two feet and approached the women. "Magic on its own didn't work that well, but magical weapons worked better. Light-magic worked the best. Needless to say, death-magic is counterproductive, and he seems more affected by fire- than ice-magic."

"I didn't try because I didn't want to burn the whole continent down, but I suspect Fiendfyre will be just as effective against the Nazgul as everything else," Katie said.

"And his Scream? What about that?"

"Terror aura," Ron said. "He, and the other Nazgul, have a constant fear aura that affect the limbic system. The scream enhances that, causes paralysis in the less strong-willed. It also has a magical component to it, because covering your ears doesn't help at all. Keep your Occlumency up at all times - it's bad enough when he uses it as a demoralization tactic, it might be deadly if he uses it in the middle of battle and creates an opening against you."

"Understood," Fleur nodded once, sharply. "How did Fawkes' magic fare?"

"Definitely effective. The Witch-King was _pissed_ ," Ron said. "Fawkes represents everything that he and the other Nazgul stand against. Life, rebirth, cleansing flame."

"I thought as much, but it's good to have it confirmed," Fleur said. "Any information on the so-called Easterlings?"

Glorfindel watched the back and forth with interest. A lot of information was being exchanged - he hadn't expected it. So this had been an information-gathering expedition, not just coming to battle for the sake of it? He wouldn't have expected it of the carefree group of warlocks.

"Solid armor, good strategy and practiced drill maneuvers," Ron reported. "Definitely worth more than the orcs. I struggled against them where I could be swarmed by twice as many orcs and have no trouble. I captured a few Easterlings on the field of battle, I'll interrogate them and learn more about them. If we can overthrow their regime…"

"We'd have a powerful nation's backing," Fleur agreed.

"I doubt it will be so easy," Katie argued. "From what I've seen of their military? They're like the offspring of Mongols and Romans with a Chinese aesthetic."

"They also span a lot of territory," Glorfindel interjected, though he admittedly did not know much of the Easterlings. "Even if their capital was conquered, I'd imagine plenty of city-states will rise up against you."

"We're not… inexperienced with politics. I'd imagine with the right push we can kickstart the War of Three Kingdoms in Rhun as well," Katie said. "Only problem is ingraining ourselves in there."

"We will have to hold a proper meeting," Fleur said. "We need to discuss what our roles are going to be in the times to come."

"I understand. We need to make sure our butterflies create advantages," Ron nodded.

Glorfindel watched Ron and Katie retreat to their tent. Only Fleur remained, watching them disappear. After a moment, she turned to face him, and Glorfindel subconsciously sat up a little straighter on his horse. She was wearing a dress that sparkled with the light from the rising sun - his elfin eyes allowed him to see the impossibly small steel chain links that made up her dress. It was chainmail, then?

"It's good to see you again, Glorfindel," she said finally.

"It's also very good to see you again, Lady Fleur," Glorfindel said, dismounting. "It has been… eight years, has it not? What have you and your lord husband been doing recently?"

"We've been exploring the far west," Fleur said. "We've been trying to find ruins of what used to be Beleriand. See what kind of ancient magics we might find."

"Beleriand? From the First Age?" Glorfindel blinked. Admittedly, his memory of his previous life was lacking in many places. "Have you found anything?"

"Most of it is underwater, and neither Harry nor I are as effective underwater as above it," Fleur said dryly. "That being said, yes, we have discovered a few interesting things. For example, we sailed quite the distance northwest and found the lands where Ungoliant was rumored to have hidden herself."

Glorfindel grimaced. "I trust you had the sense not to delve too deeply."

"Oh, please, you underestimate Harry's stubbornness," she laughed. "No, we dug deeper. And guess what we found? Spiders that had adapted to an aquatic environment, can you believe it? They would weave cone-like webs, really like those fish traps, that allowed fish to swim inside, but not back out. Thankfully, most of them were smaller spiders."

Glorfindel shivered. "I hope that they do not resurface again."

"I don't think we'll have to worry about that for some time. Harry found and exterminated four colonies 'as a favor to Ron'." Fleur exclaimed with a large grin. "Oh! By the way, did you know Ron and Katie found spiders bigger than the average house roaming like horses in the Dark Lands?"

Glorfindel covered his face in his hands and let out a heavy sigh.

* * *

**T.A. 1980, September**

Khana placed the reed mat on the low wooden tabletop, before placing the teapot on top of it. The bottom of the ceramic pot was still hot, and she didn't want to catch Mistress Katherine's ire by burning the polished wood surface.

The doors slid open and Mistress Katherine stepped forward. She was a tall woman, and obviously foreign but spoke perfect Hithli with a Dormun accent. Long, straight black hair, a slightly beakish nose, and her sharp eyes were a cold brown. Khana could count the number of times that Mistress Katherine had smiled in the past seven years on one hand.

Khana dutifully placed two cups, one in front of herself and another in front of her Mistress', before pouring three and a half fingers' worth of amber liquid in each, just as she had been raised to do since she was a child. Mistress Katherine folded her legs underneath her, as graceful as a serpent, and watched Khana's work.

"Thank you," Mistress said as Khana finished pouring. Together, they took their first mouthful of tea. It tasted excellent, as it always did.

"How has your Occlumency progressed?" Mistress asked. These weekly meetings allowed Mistress to connect with her students. Khana appreciated this; while she was harsh, she was never cruel, and often took her students' feedback into consideration instead of dismissing them as another mistress might have. For a woman so powerful, Mistress was exceedingly humble.

"Well, thank you," Khana responded. "I believe I have begun to reach what you call 'Level Two' - conscious control over emotional influences."

"Good," Mistress said. "You have been progressing beyond my expectations. I applaud your efforts and drive." Khana preened inside, but allowed no sign of it to escape onto her face, instead giving a respectful bow. "How are the newest generation of students?"

Khana had become something of a caretaker to several dozen young girls, now. She was one of the oldest students under Mistress Katherine's tutelage, and thus was expected to take responsibility for the younger ones. It didn't bother her; it wasn't much different from taking care of her seven siblings when she had yet to be orphaned, just on a bigger scale.

"Talia shows the most promise," Khana reported. "She has taken to the studies with vigor, and shows a lot of natural talent. While I hesitate to say this, the other students are quite… lackluster in their efforts and results."

"It's to be expected," Mistress shrugged. "This is your first year teaching the younglings, is it not? I have noticed that generally, the newest members aren't particularly focused on anything that isn't their next meal. They don't have the same loyalty to the institution as the elder students do, after all."

Khana disliked that. She, like Talia, had been one of the children that had taken to the magical studies with enthusiasm from the very beginning. After all, Mistress had taken her and her siblings off the streets, giving them shelter and food. Khana and two of her sisters had been nominated for study in this sect of female magicians - 'witches', Mistress called them - and while magicless, her other sisters had been permitted to work for a bed and food, and her brothers had been handed over to Mistress' husband, who was a sorcerer of his own and also a powerful warrior.

It grated on her that some children would be so dismissive of Mistress' actions that way. The majority of them were orphans, taken off the street where the supply of food was just as irregular as beatings from adults were regular. Khana's mother had died birthing her youngest brother, who also no longer lived. Her father had been conscripted by King Khamul the Black to invade a nearby nation, and never returned. She was forever grateful for Mistress in giving her a new home.

"Still…"

"Give them time, Khana. They're likely feeling conflicted about all the change that has recently occurred in their lives."

"Of course, Mistress."

A minute or two passed in silence, each of them simply enjoying their tea.

"May I ask you a question, Mistress?"

"You may."

"Where did you learn to wield your magic?"

Mistress paused and contemplated. She seemed to take another sip of her tea to help her think of a suitable answer. Khana wasn't expecting one, at least not a clear answer, considering how secretive she seemed to be of her past. It was somewhat of a surprise when she did answer, and not entirely enigmatically.

"I studied in a school run by talented wizards and witches," she said. "We had a professor for each of the major fields of study. We attended the school for seven years in total - the first five years, we'd receive a general education, and in the final two years, we'd specialize, going into courses that were permitted as per our performance."

"You learned all that magic in seven years?" Khana blurted incredulously.

"Of course not," Mistress snorted. "A school full of children who would rather be talking to friends than doing homework? That school only barely managed to part the essential of magics, I think. Most of my knowledge comes from the research I did as a scholar, and the travels I made with my friends."

"Such as your husband?" Khana asked. "And Lady Fleur?"

"Yes. We've been traveling for… a very long time…" she trailed off.

"Will you tell me about some of your travels?" Khana asked. "...if you are willing, of course."

"I am willing," she said with a twitch of her lips that Khana might interpret as a smile. "So many tales, Khana. We have lived for a very long time, you see…"

Then Khana felt something. In her periphery, like a sensation that someone was looking at her. She doubted any of the other students could feel it, as she was the most advanced in Occlumency out of all the students, and Occlumency increased the user's perception. Mistress Katherine had not reacted, and Khana wondered if she was having a… _misfire_ of her abilities.

"Something bothers you?"

"Yes, Mistress," Khana said. "I sense something, but I'm unsure if it even means anything, or…"

"You're not mistaken. I can sense it," Mistress said, calmly sipping her tea, before turning her head in the exact direction that Khana felt like she was sensing a disturbance from. "The source is far away, but exceptionally powerful magic is at play."

Khana looked down. Mistress called it 'exceptionally powerful', but was her Occlumency so limited that she didn't even know if it was real or not?

"Quit feeling ashamed of yourself. Magic perception is a difficult skill to obtain. Truth be told, I wasn't even certain if you'd sense it," she said. She frowned, and Khana saw another twitch of her lips - a frown? That was just as rare as a smile. "Powerful magic, indeed. An ancient evil is awakening and brings great destruction with it."

"Ancient evil?" Khana exclaimed, alarmed.

"Yes. I believe it is a so-called Balrog," Mistress said, then shivered. Khana blinked at the string of rare behaviors. "...Merlin. I wish the best of luck to anyone facing _that_ monster, but I suspect in this case it wouldn't matter."

"Is this Balrog so powerful?" Khana asked. She had read about them in her history lessons, of course, but it was difficult to contextualize.

"Yes," Mistress said, closing her eyes and rubbing her temple as if nursing a headache. "For context? I would think… at least three sorcerers of my caliber might be required to drive off a single Balrog, and even then death is a possibility."

Khana blinked. "Then if I and all the other students were to fight…?"

"You'd all die," Mistress said bluntly.

There was something else. Khana felt something like a breeze, and looked towards the north. Mistress Katherine sipped her tea. "You definitely felt that, I suspect. That magic was about as far away as the Balrog."

"...but even stronger?" Khana said.

"Yes, but thankfully not evil. It's a familiar signature," Mistress said. "I did tell you about Harry, yes?"

"Lady Fleur's husband?" Khana recalled.

"And the strongest of all of us. So powerful that if Fleur, my husband and I were to fight him together, we'd lose ten times over." Mistress held out her cup and Khana refilled it. "He once decided he wanted a pet. So he… created an egg, I suppose, from which he birthed a dragon."

"A dragon," Khana repeated.

"Yes," she said. "And from what Fleur is telling me, a cold-drake decided to attack a settlement of Snowfolk in the Grey Mountains, and the resident dragonlord retaliated."

"A battle between dragons," Khana breathed. It must be an epic sight to see.

"It's a curbstomp," Mistress supplied, as if reading her mind. Which she might very well be doing. "The invading lizard was dead as soon as Alduin woke up. I almost feel sorry for it."

Khana blinked, then decided to refill her cup. Mistress was powerful. Strong. She'd been targeted by no less than eight assassins (there were probably more of that Khana didn't know of) in the past six years that she'd been in Kabal, the Black King's seat of power. Mistress had barely noticed the attempts to bully her, from rival schools of magic to the Black King's lieutenants themselves.

In the far west, though? According to her, there were beings of untold power that not even three thousand years of practice and cultivated power could defeat.

...Mistress would chide her for it. But Khana wanted to see that power with her own eyes.


	8. Interlude 1

**The Adventures of Amarylla Took**

**Chapter One: Spark**

**(T.A. 2004 - 2025)**

I like to think that madness came when I was a mere five years old.

It began on the two-thousand and fourth year of the Third Age, or the four-hundred and third year by Shire-reckoning, for my Hobbit readers. I was a child still, learning to speak and learning to run, able to walk but only in short distances. My mother and father were Adamanta Patch and Rabert Took respectively; both were fairly ordinary, but nonetheless wonderful parents.

Any sense of normalcy in their lives were thoroughly destroyed when a Big Person became a neighbor, though.

It was one woman. Almost six feet tall, she had blonde hair and blue eyes like gemstones. She was utterly beautiful, frighteningly intelligent, yet undeservingly kind. I had no clue why a Big Person decided to move into the Shire; it was rare enough that they even came to trade with Hobbits, and rarer still to actually live with us - she might be the very first, in fact. Yet, it was her, wearing a sky-blue sundress and carrying utterly nothing else.

She had appeared, alongside her house, one morning with no warning whatsoever, in the neighborhood of Bywater, just south of Hobbiton. It was because of this that as a child, I thought all Men were sprites that popped up seemingly randomly from the earth. My parents were deeply suspicious - well, my mother was, anyway, my father was more curious than anything. My mother finally allowed me to visit the Big Person after the latter had impressed my mother with tea.

Her name was Fleur. She never gave a surname, and despite how long I knew her, I had never inquired. My sister - Elanor, older than myself by three years - and I visited the next morning. She invited us into her home and we were both thoroughly impressed.

Bookshelves reached from the floor to the ceiling, with thick tomes and piled scrolls placed higher than even Fleur could reach. The tables were twice as tall as we were. It was surreal seeing everything we knew, but simply in double size, placed around the home like it was perfectly normal. I enjoyed sitting on the chairs, where the seats could fit four of me. Elanor didn't like heights.

Elanor suspected that Fleur was a scholar. It made sense, considering the library that spilled into other rooms due to the sheer volume of books. Furthermore, Fleur told a lot of delightful stories, stories that we'd never heard before, and none that our parents or neighbors had ever heard either. A story about a girl who tumbled through a rabbit hole into a new world. A story about a frog and toad who were friends. A story about a cat that wore a hat.

They were new, they were exciting, and it made us long for adventure. For this reason, mother was thoroughly disappointed, in both us and in Fleur, and made the latter promise not to tell us stories that would 'plant funny ideas in [our] heads.' Of course, Fleur agreed easily and then did it anyway, telling us not to tell our mother. Elanor and I were enthused about keeping a secret, and we agreed.

We thought Fleur was the only Big Person in the Shire, but we were proven wrong six months since Fleur first arrived. As it turned out, Fleur was married, and her husband had been taking his sweet time on an honest-to-Valar _adventure_. I could practically feel the annoyance and dislike radiating off of mother whenever she saw him.

His name was Harry. Again, no surname. He had raven-black hair and intense green eyes that I don't think I will - or can - ever forget. He, unlike his wife, was grumpy, snarky, and occasionally mean, but _goodness_ , could he tell a tale.

I can hardly recall them now, but certain things I remember. A boy named Tom Sawyer. A white whale and a man's relentless pursuit. A hero named Achilles. A man who built a machine to travel far forward in time. A girl who could control insects in a world where men were gods. A boy who went to a castle to learn magic. The well of stories never went dry, and I think it was because of this that my craving for adventure wormed itself into my heart.

As much as my mother didn't enjoy Elanor or I interacting with our new neighbors, she couldn't stop us. Or father, for that matter; father got on rather well with Harry. Harry used to fix any broken chairs or tables with enough skill for him to qualify as a carpenter, in addition to a whole lot of other things he undoubtedly was.

A master swordsman - well, I was no judge of swordsmanship at the age of five or six, but even I could tell that his movements, as he sparred with his wife, well-trained, practiced, honed to perfection. Every movement was a perfect combination of offense and defense, protecting oneself while simultaneously attacking, with no movement wasted in what seemed more like a dance than a fight. It was brutal, yes. But even then, it was beautiful.

He was a scholar, too, just like his wife. It was Fleur who taught us languages, while it was Harry who taught us numbers. Before I was even ten years old, I knew enough to be conversational in Sindarin and Khuzdul, and Harry had begun to teach me division, multiplication, and what he called 'algebra'. Something that any Hobbit I asked, and Men too, seemed rather baffled by.

As we grew older, Elanor and I learned more and more from the Big Folk. Fleur taught the more restrained Elanor many different ways to braid her hair, how to draw and paint. I learned more from Harry, since I was more excitable and he seemed more excitable than Fleur, too. He taught me how to climb trees, make rope out of plant fiber, and finally, he taught me how to fight.

I feel like the last class were somewhat wasted on me, considering I was a quarter of his height at the time and I wouldn't be able to grapple the average Hobbit, much less the average Man. Still, I tried to keep it in mind. Once he determined I was good enough, he began to teach me archery. Not to be outdone, my father began to participate in our lessons too, bringing his old hunting bow out with him.

They weren't just teachers, though. They were also friends. I fondly remember all the times I fell asleep with my head on Fleur's lap, or the times when Harry baked 'pizza' for us (which has become our family recipe, by the way). The time when we built a treehouse together, complete with a rope-ladder trailing down towards the ground and made all the other Hobbit children jealous.

Furthermore, they had rather interesting friends.

When I was eleven years old, Harry and Fleur was visited by a tall, most gorgeous elf. He was even taller than Harry was, though not by much, and he had golden hair the color of wheat, and friendly blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled. I will admit that I did indeed have a childhood crush (though not necessarily 'childhood' if it had yet to disappear) on Lord Glorfindel of Rivendell.

Not that I knew that at the time - all we introverted Hobbits knew was that an elf warrior had come to the Shire to visit the funny Big Folk living in Bywater. And that he was insanely handsome, too. My mother was, predictably, wary of the newcomer, but thankfully she never stopped me from visiting Fleur, Harry, and now Glorfindel, simply because she blushed and stammered whenever the elf's name was mentioned in conversation and she couldn't react fast enough to keep me from going.

Lord Glorfindel (though I knew him at the time as Glorfy, a nickname that Harry used liberally and Glorfindel seemed to hate him for) helped me with archery - and he was better than both my father and Harry combined - and left two weeks later, returning to Rivendell and extending a blushing Elanor and blushing Amarylla an invitation to visit him in the elf-dwelling.

When I was twelve, Harry and Fleur were visited by a tall, old man cloaked in grey, wearing a pointy hat with broad brims, with a most impressive beard that reached down to his belt. I learned his name was 'Gandalf', a rather uncommon name but uncommon was expected in Harry and Fleur's company. He introduced himself as a scholar and a fan of fireworks, so much so that he made his own when he had the time. He demonstrated exactly that one evening, sending beautiful flowers of flame into the sky that not even the most grumpy of Hobbits in Bywater could complain about.

When I was fifteen, Harry and Fleur were visited by their daughter. Or at least, I assumed that was why the young woman was calling them 'Father' and 'Mother'. Strangely, she didn't look much like Harry, although a little like Fleur - she had hair and skin the color of snow, and weirdly, her skin felt as cold as snow, too. Gabrielle, or 'Gaby', took a liking to me, and took care of me during her stay. She told me she was a 'Snowfolk', a race of Men borne from snow in the Grey Mountains, and like 'Glorfy', invited me to come visit her if I were ever able.

Finally, when I was nineteen, my studies with Harry and Fleur were interrupted by a breathtakingly beautiful elf-maiden with long, golden hair and an enigmatic smile. Apparently the two Big Folks hadn't realized her coming, either, because they were as surprised as I was. That was how I met the Ariel, the fortune-telling elf-maiden out of the woods of Lothlorien. Mysterious, beautiful, and wise, she reminded me of Fleur, though they looked nothing alike. Elanor elected to paint a portrait of Ariel, and it seemed that Ariel liked it, because she bought it off of my sister. Elanor fainted when three golden coins were pressed into her palm as compensation.

On an unrelated note, that was the day I took up painting as well.

I loved Fleur, and I loved Harry. I respected them both greatly and the two of them gave us fantastical knowledge in return. That was why I was so shocked and frightened when one day, the two of them simply disappeared, when I was twenty-two.

Mother and father didn't believe they were gone. At least, not until a whole month later, when it became impossible to deny that the two of them were gone. Because mother had huffed and went to the Big House to knock on their door, planning to reprimand them for letting the weeds in their garden grow out, only for the door to creak open from the force of the knocking and reveal a completely empty fireplace.

Gone. All the tables, chairs, and numberless bookshelves, had disappeared. And when the news spread, I found out why. Elanor and I witnessed the Townsends, filthy leeches of Hobbits that they were, poke their heads in the doorway and congratulate my father for driving away the 'problematic folk.'

Surprisingly, it wasn't me that broke first. It was Elanor. She burst into tears even as she angrily demanded an explanation of what happened. Father looked distinctly uncomfortable, so mother (perhaps a touch too relieved, in my opinion) explained how the neighborhood Hobbits were distraught by the visitations of so many strangers that they pressured father into talking to the Big Folk. Apparently, Fleur and Harry had had complaints like that before, and this time, they'd 'had enough shit,' as they might say it. They'd packed up and left in a single night, just like they'd arrived in a single night, without anyone knowing.

The neighbors were smug. My mother was perhaps also smug, but she stopped being smug when the family began to fall apart around her. Father became distant, to the point I'd possibly say depressed; he didn't have many friends, after all, and he probably felt the guilt of being the Bywater Hobbits' reluctant mouthpiece. Elanor stopped painting, as it seemed to remind her of Fleur and all the pain she associated with her leaving. I tried to take care of them both, but it hurt to see them that way and I couldn't help but feel like I was being affected negatively by them, rather than me affecting them positively.

When I was twenty-six years old, almost an adult but not quite, I assembled several things. Two sacks, one of them full of clothes and the other full of food and the small amount of money I'd saved up, as well as a blank book in which to write this very story. A forest-green traveling cloak, made of wool. A dagger that I had received from Fleur a long time ago, and a hunting bow that my father had carved for me on my birthday several years back. I was going to escape, and I was going to find Harry and Fleur again, perhaps convince them to return - even if I had to go through a deadly adventure to do exactly that.

Of course, as I crept towards the entrance, I thought my plan foiled already due to the single Hobbit-sized shadow in front of the fireplace.

I often wonder these days if I'd ever have led the life I led if my mother had been sitting in front of the fireplace rather than my father. Certainly, my mother would have been adamant that I stay, and throw away any foolish notions of adventure. My father, though, he seemed to have immediately guessed my intentions yet remained quietly contemplative.

My father, Rabert Took, had fought in the Battle of Fornost. This was… fifty years ago. He and some of his mates had stolen their fathers' hunting bows and marched north to fight alongside elves and Men against orcs and other Men. He wasn't a storyteller like Fleur or Harry were, but sometimes when he reminisced, he'd tell me and Elanor some things he saw on the battlefield, the things he felt and thought. The thunder of hooves as the elfin cavalry charged ranks of orcs. Flaming arrows streaking through the smoke-choked sky like shooting stars. He'd even told us about a man who wore flames like armor and wrestled a troll - and won. I wasn't certain about the last part, but I never had the heart to tell him that. Besides, the things I'd see in the coming years would change my mind.

He told me to go, to follow my heart. So I did that. I left my home of twenty-six years, without saying goodbye to my mother or sister except for a letter I left on my pillow, and I made for the town of Bree.

* * *

**Chapter Two: Flare**

**(T.A. 2025 - 2027)**

When I found Bree, I realized I had no idea what I was supposed to do.

I purchased a map from a cartographer (and it cost me half of all I'd saved up) in hopes that perhaps staring at a map would help me find out a route I wanted to take with a list of places I wished to visit. It did. I decided for now I'd just keep going east, visit Rivendell to take up Glorfy on his offer, and turn north once I crossed the Misty Mountains to visit Gaby and take her up on her offer. After that? I might visit the Kingdom of Erebor, then head south to see Mirkwood.

...but first. I needed supplies, and I had no idea what to get.

Fleur had given me, a long time ago, some strange device called a compass that used some manner of sorcery to make a needle always point north. But it wasn't enough. Harry's rope-making lessons and the like wouldn't be enough. I was a good shot with the bow, but not so much to think I could find game every day, consistently enough to keep me fed. I had no knowledge of edible and inedible plants or plant parts.

It was a blessing, then, that I got drunk at an inn and met a Ranger.

Not many people know who Rangers are, in this day and age. I certainly didn't when I drunkenly tried to seduce a man in dusty, probably dark-green cloak and clothing (probably green, under all that dust) simply because I thought he had a rather attractive beard. The Man in question was made rather uncomfortable at my failing advances, but he was kind enough to take me to bed when I fell asleep mid-sentence in his arms.

The next morning, I woke up with the worst hangover of my life and a beautiful hunk of a man at my side, quietly watching me like some sort of pervert. I told him as much. He smirked.

"I recall that I was not the one pickling my brain in alcohol and trying to grope between a man's legs the previous night."

"Fuck you," I replied eloquently. "Besides. I'm not interested in you anymore, because your stink overwhelms my drunkenness at this point."

"You stink as much, just of something else."

"Well, every adult dreams of diving into a pool of booze, but I doubt anyone dreams of diving into a pile of shit, so I'd rather be me than you."

"You're so petty. Especially for someone who should be grateful for being helped the previous night."

"You haven't seen anything yet, buddy."

And that was how I made my first friend on the road, Thelion the Ranger.

He was nice, when he wasn't being a complete prick to me. And he did that quite often. I liked him anyway. I also forgave a little of what he did because I suspected someone who stunk as much as he did didn't get the opportunity for social interaction that often. I also had to literally beg him for him to even consider taking me along on his ranging, and then he declined anyway, so I clung to his leg and refused to let go until he decided the demerits of taking me along was less than refusing me.

I smiled fondly when I remember how much of a disappointment I was back then.

I recall the first time he tried to make me skin a rabbit, I threw up on his shoes. I had witnessed death before, naturally, but I hadn't really… killed anything before. Perhaps it was my much kinder elder sister's influence, but even when I practiced archery, I didn't shoot live targets. I was too sympathetic for them. Even when my mother was plucking a bird for dinner, I refused to watch. So, when Thelion pushed it towards me and told me to try, I was overwhelmed with guilt.

He wasn't very happy with me, and I could see him regretting his choice.

But, I improved. I tried to improve, so I did. Thelion became less and less annoyed with me over the next several months. He occasionally admonished me for making mistakes, but everyone made mistakes; I am proud to say he never had to admonish me for being lazy. I learned to track animals, identify plants, and prepare food and learned basic cooking as well. Thelion agreed with my request to learn some hand-to-hand combat, the first I'd learned since Harry left.

I overestimated my own skill, clearly.

Thelion easily threw me to the ground, and I groaned as my back landed on a fist-sized stone. That would cause some bruising. I returned to my feet and pouted at the insufferable Ranger, who was laughing.

"What the hell was that?" He chuckled. "You call that a punch?"

"I haven't practiced in years," I grumbled. "And when I was learning, I was too young to actually understand what I was meant to be doing."

"Or maybe you had a shit teacher."

I snarled at him. "Shut up. Harry and Fleur were the best teachers."

"Then why don't you prove it? Hit me again, midget. I'll even give you a free shot."

I growled and I punched at his gut. It felt like punching a tree. I hoped that I hid my wince well enough for Thelion not to see.

"So you gonna throw that punch or what?" Thelion quipped.

"Asshole," I breathed.

"If that teacher of yours was as good as you say, then you've literally forgotten everything they taught you. We're gonna have to start from the very beginning, I reckon. Now copy my movements, _exactly_. As a midget, you'll have to work extra hard to fight Men, elves, dwarves, or even orcs to feel anything."

Wake up, eat, train, eat, track, eat, sleep. We repeated this routine for so long that I eventually forgot the date and even the year. I didn't think we were out in the wilderness for more than a year, but honestly, I couldn't be certain. Thelion became my only friend, even as I began to forget features of our family Hobbit-hole and the faces of my family. My dreams of lying on Fleur's lap faded away into nightmares of Thelion chasing me with a skinning knife.

Still, though, I learned a lot.

For example, I was a much quieter stalker than he was, something that annoyed him a lot (which meant I brought it up as often as possible). Due to my Hobbit-feet, it was easier for me to track animals and get close enough to shoot them with my bow. Combined with Thelion's stealth training, I was a ghost in the night. Eventually, many, many days since we first began stealth training, I was able to sneak up on Thelion even while he was awake, even when he knew I was coming, and catch him in a sneak attack.

He told me he was impressed. I preened.

He taught me the basics of how to use a sword, as well. I asked, since I was a midget, if it would be better for me to use an axe, something with more weight behind each strike. He told me that if I wanted to learn how to use an axe, I should just grow a beard and become a dwarf. I didn't talk to him for the next two days after that.

Thelion also taught me the basics of first aid, the basics of elvish healing. He was also surprisingly good at playing the flute, so I learned not only how to play, but also how to carve a flute (because he told me in no uncertain terms that I wouldn't be using his to practice).

In return, I told him stories.

The very first story I told him was the one about the frog and the toad, because that was all I could recall at the moment. He jeered. I was hurt slightly, but I agreed the story was probably a bit childish for Thelion, who had undoubtedly seen violence and hardship wherever he'd been. I tried to remember the stories that Harry had told me, rather than Fleur, the ones that had a bit more violence and innuendo in them.

I told him the story about the Godfather.

I don't think I could have done justice to that particular story, or the way in which Harry wove it. The story itself was beautiful, and so was the way Harry told it, like a spider weaving a net, every piece falling into place using just the right words and cutting out those he didn't need. I suspected I struggled much more with that, especially as I took breaths to remember what had happened. Still, though, Thelion was an attentive audience.

He said he'd liked it.

So I told him tales, most of those just stories I regurgitated from my childhood. Thelion liked 'Shawshank Redemption' enough to try and memorize it, so he could tell others. Thelion didn't tell stories, on the other hand. Said he wasn't that good at it and always felt awkward being the center of attention, his Ranger side telling him to hide again. I supposed that was fair enough.

A whole year after traveling with Thelion, we finally ran into a band of orcs.

It would have happened eventually, but I was terrified. Thelion and I were hidden in the bushes, watching them make camp as night fell. Thelion had an ugly expression on his face, like an animal baring its teeth, and I didn't want to tell him that it was frightening me because I thought he might get upset. I instead focused on the orcs.

Don't let anyone tell you that orcs are terrible. They are, yes, but they have no strength. They are pathetic, cowardly creatures at their heart that, I suspect, would rather be dead than alive. They bickered over sleeping spots and lay down, and I could hear them whimpering as they saw nightmares. They are broken things, tortured and warped by darkness and fear of their masters.

"Ready your bow," Thelion spoke to me. His voice was so cold.

We shot down the sentries. In a group of twelve, they had bothered with only two. Only ten left. Thelion drew twin daggers and snuck up to the orcs. I drew my own and tentatively followed. I felt mounting terror in my heart that I would trip up, cause a great disturbance, and wake the orcs. So distracted was I by this fear in my heart that I tripped up and did exactly that.

The sound of my foot slipping into a hole and me trying to stifle my cry of pain was apparently enough to jerk the orcs awake. Two of them, anyway. Thelion was in reach to draw his daggers over one orc's bare throat and the other raised the alarm. Eight more orcs awoke and engaged us in combat. I limped my way towards Thelion as the orcs drew brutal-looking cleavers and rushed him.

"Fool," I could hear Thelion hiss as he slaughtered two orcs. I didn't think he was talking to the enemy.

I had the second terror of that night when one orc noticed me and charged me. The beast was twice as large as I was, and carrying a dagger that was already twice the length of my own. He roared and charged at me, no real skill or practice behind his movements, only raw, primal rage and the desire to kill. I pushed myself under his body with my one good leg and stabbed into his stomach. He squealed. I felt sick, and I still did it again. And again. Until the orc slumped to the ground and I barely managed to dodge out from underneath.

Thelion returned, nursing his arm. I chewed my lip as I addressed him. "Are you hurt?"

"Just a bruise," he grunted. "I am wearing chainmail underneath."

"So you're not hurt?"

"No thanks to you."

I withered under his cold gaze and we worked in silence, dragging the corpses into one large pile, then burning them. The stink of burning flesh nauseated me, and we retreated back to our camp. Thelion refused to speak to me. I was too afraid to speak out. Fear the man, and pity the monster. I was fairly certain that was not what was supposed to happen.

Thelion was much nicer the next morning.

"I apologize for being angry at you," he said awkwardly. "I was foolish, selfish, and ungrateful in the heat of battle. I daresay that should you not have been there, I would have been detected from the very first moment, when we shot down the sentries. You made a mistake, which is understandable, and I should not have been so harsh on you."

"I accept your apology," I replied, just as awkwardly.

A silence. "Are you hurt?" He asked.

"No."

"...four days ago, you said you would return to Bree in about a week. That is in three days."

"I suppose it is."

"Would you like me to escort you back? It would not bother me to do so."

"Whichever you prefer."

Thelion shifted uncomfortably. He was silent for a minute. "I wish to do as you wish," he said finally.

"You don't have to feel guilty, you know. I already accepted your apology, and I've moved on."

Thelion clenched his fist and released it again. "You haven't," he breathed.

"Excuse me?"

"You haven't moved on. It's clear to me," Thelion sighed. "You're still upset, I can tell. You're subdued, your responses are short, I may not have had much social interaction over my life but I have learned about _you_. I have spent every moment of the past year and a half with you and I can tell what you are feeling, now." He looked into my eyes. "Please. You haven't moved on yet. So let me atone for what I did."

"It's not like that," I lied, even as I was forced to admit he was right.

"I'm not blaming you for being upset. What I did was foolish and hurtful," Thelion said weakly. "Amarylla. Look at me."

I did. He didn't use my name that often.

"I want to know how I can make you feel better again," he said softly. "I want to atone for what I did. But I just don't want to make it worse. Please, please help me."

"...would you take me to Amon Sul?" I asked softly.

The Ranger finally cracked a smile. "You are heading to Rivendell, then?"

"I thought I told you as much. Are you sure you'll be able to remember 'Shawshank'?"

And just like that, our friendship was back, and perhaps stronger than ever.

As we trekked to the old, abandoned fortress, it was for the first time in our travels together that Thelion was the one to tell me a story. He was right, he wasn't cut out for the job. But whatever he couldn't convey with experience or talent, he managed to convey with emotion.

"We Dunedain are a broken people now," he told me. "Our last king was killed as our kingdoms were burned. And to think we were a people with a proud history. What do you know of the Numenoreans?"

"Not much," I admitted.

"The Kingdom of Numenor was located on an island west of Middle-Earth. As a people bound to the seas, Numenorean culture became tied to it also, and the people became great mariners, warriors, and scholars. Eventually the Numenoreans sailed west, finding Middle-Earth, and taught its people what they had learned. Their might was so great that they struck against the Dark Lord Sauron and the Dark Lord found his own armies running, leaving himself to be captured by the Numenoreans, not a single battle fought. Yet all great men fall, I suppose, for the prisoner Sauron had become one of the King's closest advisors and a subject of worship."

Thelion sighed. "Sauron's whispers caused darkness to cover the once-proud kingdom. The king made an impossible bid for immortality, and the Valar punished him for it. Numenor drowned, its watchtowers crumbling, its ships torn to shreds. We, the Dunedain, are the descendants of the remnants of Numenor. And for a while, we were reinvigorated. The Kingdoms or Arnor stood tall - and then, of course, the last of them died fifty years ago."

"Did you fight in that war?" I asked softly.

"I did. As did all my brothers of the Dunedain," he said. "I was stationed with the archers, protecting them from melee threats. I think I shall remember that sight for the rest of my life - it was a grand sight, terrible but grand, something I imagine is the closest I'd ever come ot seeing the Numenoreans striking at Sauron, when their culture and people were still good and proud."

"My father told me about 'a man who wore flames like armor'..."

"It's true," Thelion said with an amused smile. "I don't think anyone on the hills, or on the front lines, could have missed that giant of a man cleaving through orcs like they were paper. I also witnessed him snap a mountain troll's neck with his bare hands."

"I thought father was lying!"

"I would think so too, if I had not seen it with my own eyes," Thelion laughed. "Would you believe me if I said my brothers and I shared a drink with him after our victory? Big man. Red whiskers. He drank more than all the others in the tavern combined."

"Now I know you're lying."

"Perhaps. But he was definitely a drinker as much as he was a fighter," Thelion mused. Then his smile fell. "I fear for my people, sometimes. We - even after Arnor fell - decided we'd spend our existence fighting the darkness, until the last Dunedain fell. In the possibly vain hopes that the Valar would adopt us again. But I feel like this will never happen."

"Why not?"

"The world is falling into decay, Amarylla. The elves' power is waning, the darkness creeps along the world, and Kingdoms of Men far lesser than what Numenor once was, is being corrupted by the darkness as we speak. By its temptations. Such that some of my former countrymen - the Numenoreans who were stationed in Harad, for example, when Numenor fell - are serving the darkness as well. I don't think I can atone for my ancestors, my countrymen, and myself, all at once."

I remained quiet.

"I'm afraid, Amarylla."

"I understand," I said softly, but then I looked up to him. "But I don't think you have anything to atone for. Your ancestors were idiots, your countrymen are idiots. But you are not. You need not suffer for them, and I think the Valar are wise enough to recognize you for who you are, not who your blood is."

Thelion gave a small smile. "Thank you. You're too kind."

We reached Weathertop, or Amon Sul, an old fortress that was burned down over six hundred years ago. It was now nothing more than a ring of stone covered in moss. I stared at Thelion in silence. This would be it for us. We might meet again, but it may be a very, very long time. It reminded me of a song that Fleur was humming under her breath once. I asked her what it was, and she had replied it was stuck in her head and not going away. I, being the child I was, had encouraged her to sing it aloud to let it go, and hopefully stop bothering her.

"It's been a long day, without you, my friend," I whispered. "And I'll tell you all about it when I meet you again."

Thelion chuckled softly as heard the words. I continued to sing to him. He didn't interrupt me, and after a few verses, he began mouthing the words to himself. I didn't realize it had meant so much to him, not until I heard it again in Gondor so many years later, known as 'Thelion's Song'. I think of him whenever I hear those words.

I spent one last night with him. In the morning, we parted ways. I couldn't say anything to him, as constricted as my throat was. He gave me a hug. I returned it furiously. He disappeared into the still-dark sky, as Rangers are wont to do. I began to take my first steps towards Rivendell, the happy thought of meeting Glorfy just barely managing to keep my misery and pain of leaving Thelion in check.

I would never see him again, not that I knew that back then. I eventually met one of his brothers. He said Thelion was killed saving a village from orcs. He'd died as he'd lived.

As my hero.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Bonfire**

**(T.A. 2033 - 2038)**

I wondered what my mother would think, if she knew I had been in a relationship with a dwarf.

I arrived at the Kingdom of Erebor in February of T.A. 2033. At first they mistook me for a female dwarf. It made sense; I was only a little shorter than they were, I was well-built from my days on the road, and I spoke Khuzdul, although somewhat accented. When I corrected Mister Dumlin (at your service), he was shocked and surprised.

"A Hobbit?" He cried. "What is a Hobbit?"

"...the other race of midgets on Middle-Earth?"

"There's _another_ race of midgets on Middle-Earth?"

"Well, obviously. The Valar needed a counterbalance for all the foolishness of the dwarves with the intellect and wisdom of the Hobbits."

"By Aule. I have met a dwarf who is not a dwarf. I must tell the king!"

Perhaps we Hobbits weren't as intelligent as we thought, because I had thought that to be a joke and thought nothing more of it. The next morning, I was waken by Dumlin, who happened to be a cousin to King Thrain I of Erebor, and I was dragged to breakfast with the royal bloody family.

I cursed Dumlin in my mind.

"A Hobbit, you say? I do believe we have heard of your people, but Hobbits stepping into the wider world is unheard of!"

"You're not wrong," I laughed. "We Hobbits prefer to security and comfort of my home. I suspect I'm a cautionary tale back home."

Thrain laughed. He was impressive to look at, even if his hair was starting to see whites and grays. "Ah, so you're like a dwarf with no love of gold. Although, in your case, much more interesting. So, a Hobbit traveler. Where have you been?"

"Well, I started off in the Shire," I recounted. "I left for Bree, then I realized I had no idea what the _fuck_ I was doing, then I got drunk and tried to serenade a Ranger of the North. Said Ranger, called Thelion, I spent a couple years learning skills under him, like tracking and hunting. Then we parted way at Amon Sul, I went to Rivendell to meet an old friend, then I crossed the Misty Mountains and headed north to the Grey Mountains to meet another one of my friends…"

"Quite the journey you've made," Thrain smiled. "And Erebor is the next stop of this journey? Or would you prefer this to be the final stop?"

I smiled at him. "As wonderful as your mountain is, I'd like for my final stop to be home."

He nodded. "Wise words from a wise woman. There is no place in our hearts like home, after all." He finished his meal and stood up. "Thank you for your tale, Miss Amarylla. I have business to attend to, if you will forgive me."

I inclined my head. "Naturally. It was a pleasure to meet you, King Thrain."

Thrain grinned toothily as he was bustled away by his advisors. My attention was caught by Prince Thorin I, who coughed politely into his fist. I looked at him curiously.

"Yes, Prince Thorin?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to take a tour of our home," he said with a smile. A pretty one, too…

"That would be wonderful," I replied with a smile of my own. "But what have I done to warrant your royal attention?"

Aw, look at him, he's blushing. Shit, I am too. "Well, a person of your importance would surely require respect in kind," he blustered. He was completely and utterly bullshitting. Still, I appreciated the effort, so I agreed, and I took a tour of the Lonely Mountain and the Kingdom Below.

It was far more impressive than I was expecting.

Thin bridges were pulled taut between the two cliffs of great dug-out caverns. Steps embedded into the stone, barely wide enough for one person. The ceiling was so far up that its features could barely be seen, and the bottom of this cavern was nothing more than a terrifying, gaping darkness. I was terrified. I might have played it up a little bit considering that it made Thorin hold me tighter to him.

"While you and I both live underground as our nature," I shivered, "I think a cliff as tall as this is not something I can get used to."

"Shall we… stop the tour? We need not do this if you're uncomfortable," Thorin said awkwardly. Understatement of the fucking century.

"No, I'm fine," I lied. "Let's keep going."

So we kept going. Thorin, as a member of authority, had the authority to enter the treasure room. I think he was trying to impress me. It worked. It worked a lot. The room was fairly large, about a square of a hundred paces a side, and it was filled to the brim with gold. A single pair of torches managed to light up the entire room, the sea of gold reflecting the flickering lights to cast churning waves on the ceiling. Thorin kept trying to sneak me gold jewelry, and I had to tell him to stop.

"Why not?" He asked, genuinely confused.

"I can't abuse your hospitality like this," I told him firmly. "The things you are trying to gift me are worth more than my father's Hobbit-hole and everything within it, I suspect. They may be individually worth little to you, but to me, they are an amount of wealth I couldn't spend all of if I tried." I sighed. "You don't need to win me affection like this. I value your company, not the things you own."

Thorin nodded before continuing with the tour. I was most impressed by the forges - giant pools of stone and coal, sparks from glowing coals drifting into the air and the ringing of hammers like tolling bells. But I think, the part that remains the most clear in my memories, is what he dubbed the 'Grand Hall.'

A great chamber, so wide that the walls on the sides are geological landmarks rather than dimensions of an actual room. We walked, and the hall was so empty that our footsteps disappeared before they could echo against the walls or ceiling. Stone pillars held up the ceiling, far above, with detailed carvings etched into each one.

"This is beautiful," I whispered.

Thorin chuckled. "You haven't seen the main attraction yet."

It took five full minutes of walking before we reached it. Of course it was huge enough that I could see from three minutes away, but it was no substitute for seeing up close. A great statue of a single Man, standing in his lonesome against a beast that was taller than most mountains and had teeth as long as I was tall.

"'The greatest tinker of Men, Iron Man, stands against the beast Leviathan'," I murmured. I narrowed my eyes at it. "What language is it written in, and why can I read it?"

Thorin shrugged. "We have no clue. All we can agree on is that it is some sort of ancient magic lost to us. Something that Iron Man, or his people, knew and forgot."

"His armor," I said, and Thorin's eyes snapped to it. "His name is Iron Man, yet his armor is clearly not iron." Some sort of pale gold-colored metal.

"It isn't," Thorin agreed. "It is a titanium-gold alloy. Gold, we dwarves know enough about. Titanium, not so much. We have inquired with wizards, but they did not know. We spoke with the Queen of the Snow, and she suggested we speak to the mysterious warlocks."

"Warlocks?" I wondered.

"Yes. There are four of them, supposedly, each of them wielders of powerful magic, wiser than all and holding knowledge that the people have yet to discover. While we know they exist for certain, their movements around Middle-Earth are erratic and we are never able to pinpoint them."

"Why not summon them to Erebor?" I asked.

"And they will not answer. Like the Wizards, they are more akin to forces of nature than they are mortals like us. They may even take offense at our summons - and we do not want that."

"I see," I hummed. "What can they do?"

Thorin leaned in to speak conspiratorially, despite the fact that the whole room was empty. "They say that they tamed a black dragonlord, so large that it could crush mountain peaks in its wicked claws and set the seas aflame!" He grinned. I laughed. "The Snowfolk say that eventually, the dragon's hunger will grow so large that it will eat the world."

I stopped laughing. "You mean Alduin?"

"Alduin?" Thorin's eyes widened in horror. "You know it?"

"Er, yes," I replied. "I told you I spent some time in the Grey Mountains. The dragon in question was about as long as my forearm." I held out the limb to gesture. His expression of shock was too funny. I laughed at him.

"I… I see," Thorin said, flustered. "It wasn't larger than Leviathan, then?" He gestured to the statue.

"No," I replied, amused. "She was not a very big lizard. Also very playful. She was like a cat."

"I had heard terrible tales about it," Thorin muttered. "About how each swipe of is gargantuan claws could tear five orcs in half."

"I don't think she's that big," I chuckled. "I suppose she would be quite frightening if she were that large."

Thorin and I got along, needless to say. He was interested in my travels, and I was interested in his biceps. I told him about all the sights I'd seen and the tales I'd been told by the people I'd met. Fleur, Harry, Thelion, Raend the Bear-Man, Katie the Mysterious Sorceress, Legolas the Rebellious Princeling, and Guzbak the Orcish Merchant. In turn, Thorin told me some stories about his own people. As much as I'd love to recite it to you, dear reader, I'm afraid at the time I spent more attention gazing dreamily into the dwarf prince's eyes and his voice rather than the contents of his voice itself.

Thorin was my first lover. I think I did quite well for myself. It still amuses me to this day when I told my sister Elanor that my first such lover was a dwarf, then a moment later that he was no ordinary dwarf, but a dwarfen prince whose rings on his fingers were probably worth more in monetary value than our entire home and, if you included the rest of his jewelry, was probably worth more than the entirety of Bywater. We never did get much closer than casually making love; as much as Thrain I liked me, I doubted he wished for his son to marry some no-name Hobbit who didn't have any plans on staying in Erebor anyway. Still, Thorin and I became close, and I enjoyed every moment of it.

We would occasionally go hunting together, and once he even received permission from his father to visit the Grey Mountains with me, and visit Gaby and Alduin. Gaby was starting to get wrinkles around her eyes and cheeks, but she was still beautiful, and it was amusing watching Thorin try not to get me jealous by blushing and stuttering in front of the Queen.

I think Thorin truly liked me. It suited me fine, because I truly liked him also. If I were to ever settle down, I think I would have liked to settle down with him. Not only was he only a little taller than I am, unlike all other companions I'd had on my travels, but Thorin was kind, soft, and he wasn't infuriatingly enigmatic like the others were. It was refreshing to meet someone who wore their emotions on their sleeve, and I was comfortable being honest in return.

I hear he's married now, and gave his new wife a necklace with a beautiful gemstone in it; the Arkenstone, they're calling it. The stone looks suspiciously similar to a stone embedded in a tiara I remember Fleur wearing, but if memory serves correctly, Fleur's was somehow even more beautiful than the Arkenstone. I always did wonder how Fleur managed to get her hands on the most collectible trophies.

I smile when I think of that dwarf. I hope his wife is good to him, because I know he will be good to his wife.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: Blaze**

**(T.A. 2065 - 2066)**

I had met Gandalf before, and I did have suspicions that Fleur and Harry were indeed sorcerers like some claimed, but I never thought I would come face-to-face with actual magic.

I hissed in pain as the bandage was removed from the stump of my arm. Thank Valar that I had a sorcerer on my side, or I might not have survived the day. Perhaps I should enlighten you on what happened in the past few days before I complain about my missing arm for the next seventeen pages.

A week ago, I had stumbled upon a group of refugees from the far east, it looked like. I was not able to converse with them too well, since I didn't speak Hithli or Beneali or whatever other languages the folk of the east spoke, but it was clear just by looking at them that they were on the run from somebody, didn't have much time to pack, and they were struggling to keep going.

"Hail!" I called out in Westron and hoped they understood, raising a hand. "Are you alright?"

The lead woman, whose stern visage reminded me a little of Fleur at her angriest moments, looked at me. Her lips thinned, and she carefully considered me before responding in an undoubtedly eastern accent. "We are travelers from the east. Let us pass and forget we were here."

"Of course," I responded, and continued on my way. I had always wanted to see the Sea of Rhun, the greatest body of inland water on Middle-Earth. I wondered if there were bigger lakes in other continents. Fleur claimed she had friends who had visited the Dark Lands, and I must say I was immensely jealous of them. Who knew what sort of adventure might be had in an entirely different realm? What kind of differences would I see? Would plants have purple leaves? Did they have massive insects and tiny horses? Did the moon look blue from over there?

It was such thoughts that dwelled as I continued eastward. I thought I could just see the River Carnen! I was on a tall hill with a good look at the horizon, and I thought I barely saw a speck of water in the distance. Maybe it was a mirage, but I somehow didn't think so. I liked to think I was making progress on approaching my destination. But first?

I, like any other good Hobbit, settled down for second breakfast.

The only problem was, I didn't have any more meat. I frowned. I wouldn't say that I'm exclusively carnivorous, but I have become used to energy-dense foods due to my long hours spent hiking. Tugging the bow over my head and into my hands, I began to look for game. Since I was hungry, I didn't need anything huge. Something to last me until lunchtime, then I could look for something large enough to last a few days.

If there is one advantage to being a Hobbit tracker, it is that you can see the clues on the ground better. Were I one of the race of Men, I wouldn't have spotted the droplets of blood on the spiky grass. I grinned. It wasn't that old, and they couldn't have gone that far.

I followed the trail, my bow at the ready. It took me about two hours to catch up to whatever had left the trail, and I was surprised to see a group of people. Easterlings, most likely. They weren't looking too good, either - probably refugees, victims of raids by foreign settlements or possibly victims of violence by local despots. The east was never said to be particularly stable, and Fleur had agreed. Even approaching the Sea of Rhun was not exactly conducive to healthy behavior.

I wondered if the refugees spoke Westron. I didn't know Hithli or Beneali or whatever other languages were spoken in the eastern regions. I tossed my bow over my head, and stood up straight, raising my arm in the air in a friendly gesture. "Hail!" I called. "Are you alright? Do you need assistance?"

By the Valar, they were dirty. And apparently, quite hurt. A severe-looking woman frowned at my approach, even as younger girls shied away from my presence. I frowned, wondering what I had done wrong.

"You again?" The woman grumbled.

I blinked. "Have we met?"

"We have, although you're about to forget about that in a second."

"Wait, what do you mean I'll forget about it?"

A jet of light streamed my way, and I instinctively dodged. I rolled, snarling at the woman. The woman ground her teeth together hard enough that I could hear it from here. I drew my bow and nocked an arrow into the string, and the woman eyes it warily. I glared back. If that was how she wanted to play it? Fine.

"Put that away," the woman snapped in a tone that made me want to obey. "You might hurt the children."

As authoritative as she sounded, I had dealt with others - King Thranduil, for example, and I had disobeyed them all in favor of being a cackling menace. And right now, I wasn't in the mood. "This is self-defense," I retorted coldly. "I don't know what spell you're attempting to put me under, but you've all but confirmed that you've bewitched me before. Why don't you give me a reason not to shoot you in the gut?"

A red jet of light flew at me even as shimmering golden half-dome appeared in front of them. Instinctively, I released my arrow even as I dived, but the arrow skittered off the translucent barrier. I nocked another arrow and shot it rapidly at the woman, only for it to be rebuffed. I huffed, tossing my bow away and drawing my blade, just in time to block an oncoming stream of red light. I let out a long-held breath.

"Why the fuck are you attacking me?"

"We can't afford to take any chances," the woman said.

I snorted. "With your piss-poor aim? You seem to be taking a hell of a lot of chances."

"Kiss my wrinkled ass, shorty. My eyesight's failing; congratulations, you might have a chance to beat an old woman."

"You are easily the most violent grandma I have ever met."

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that? I can't hear you from all the way down there."

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that? I can't hear you with that atrocious accent of yours."

"The Rhunish in this region speak Hithli, not Westron. Be grateful I even deign to speak to you in your pathetic language."

"I could recreate Hithli with armpit noises."

"Oh, real mature. I see your mind is about as developed as your body."

Someone cleared their throat. The woman's gaze snapped onto another older woman, perhaps about forty years old - not necessarily old, like the first woman, but with graying hair. I glanced at them from the corner of my eye. Like hell I was going to take my eyes off of the intense grandmother.

"Headmistress Khana, I'm thinking we should try and part amicably."

Khana glared at the woman who spoke up so hard that she seemed to wither under the gaze. "Did you forget what happened to our school three weeks ago, Professor Langin? Did those people try to part amicably with us?"

"What happened to your school?" I asked, and they both stiffened. "I'm guessing something not very good. Let me help you. If I can, anyway."

"She speaks Westron and no doubt speaks no Rhunic languages," Langin murmured quietly. "I don't think she's a spy."

"Very well," Khana conceded grudgingly, then turned to me. "The tale we tell will not be repeated to anyone, understood? If so, follow us. We must continue to move, or the enemy will catch up to us."

"Alright, but who's the enemy? In case I see them."

"Black robes with red markings on them. Under their hood, similar red tattoos line their body. If you hear ominous chanting that actually has no meaning to it, then warn us immediately." Khana glanced at me. "I am Khana, the Headmistress of a school that once existed in the city of Dorm. It was school burned down by a school of heretics that call themselves sorcerers."

I blinked and looked up, meeting her eyes. It had been a gesture of surprise, but as I met her cold, brown eyes, I suddenly felt dizzy. Confused. Like up was down and right was up. I could vaguely hear a sharp intake of breath as I tore my eyes from Khana and threw up onto the grass. Khana actually paused by my side, waiting for me to recover.

"What the fuck was that?"

"That," Khana paused, "was me trying to enter your mind to see if there was any darkness we should have been aware of."

I glared at her. "And do I pass, o Holy Sorceress?"

"I don't know," she admitted, and I stared at her. "You have a barrier on your mind, one that keeps enemies from guessing your thoughts and intentions. A barrier remarkably similar to the one I, and my students, have learned."

I continued to stare. "I'm no sorceress. The closest I've come to magic is meeting Mithrandir."

"The Grey Wizard?" Khana's eyes rose.

"You know of him? As far as I can tell, he's never gone eastwards," I said.

"I know that," she murmured. Her face became pensive. "I have a hypothesis."

"Care to share with the rest of the class?"

Khana glared. "That's my line, and you know it." Her face softened again. "Who taught you to meditate?"

"How did you know I meditate?"

"Answer the question," Khana snapped irritably.

"A woman called Fleur. She said I was too hyperactive."

Khana's eyes widened. "Lady Fleur," she murmured. "I know her. She is Mistress' closest friend. I met her once, long ago, even if it was only a passing glimpse. Pale-blonde hair, and blue eyes?"

"Yes," I said. My heart warmed. "You've seen her? How is she doing?"

"Like I said, only a passing glance," Khana said as we began moving again. "But she seemed well, from what I could overhear. Of course, this was almost forty years ago, so I have no clue how she is doing currently. What was your relationship with Lady Fleur?"

"Next-door neighbors? She took care of me when I was young."

"I see," Khana murmured. Then she looked me in the eyes, no mental influencing this time. "I apologize for my behavior towards you. I did not know if you could be trusted, and we have been running from betrayers and assassins for weeks now. I know now that you can be trusted."

"You're going to have to explain your situation a little more," I said.

"Of course," Khana answered. "We are a part of a school of magic that my mentor, Mistress Katherine, founded. While there are several other institutes that claim to teach magic, I believe Mistress Katherine was one of the few who actually practiced it. I was among her first generation of students. I learned at this school, and became a professor to teach the younger ones, even as Mistress Katherine and her husband left the east on some sort of journey. I eventually took over the position of Headmistress from one of my older friends as she contracted an illness we couldn't cure. I was Headmistress for about three years."

"I'm guessing the rival schools had something to do with you folk."

"Naturally. You might not expect it, but schools of magic wield tremendous, and not to mention terrible, influence in the east. After all, things like immortality, infinite wealth, and the power to destroy armies, are desired by all, and especially by the powerful. Toxic politics exist between the various schools and also the Black King's circle of elites. Our school has always had bad blood with most other schools, since we are the only one to denounce the crackpot necromancers for what they are. Of course, while I am certain Mistress Katherine understood, I did not have the wisdom to recognize that brute magical strength sometimes compensated for skill."

"What happened?"

"Mass resurrections. A few years prior, the region was hit with a plague that slaughtered men, women and children. These were most trying times, even for the schools of magic, for nobody stands above death. We all suffered in our own way. Some schools attempted to appease various death gods, and we did what we could - we attempted to heal everyone we could get our hands on. One particular school of magic, however, saw opportunity in death. They created legions of undead soldiers and assaulted their rivals, seeking power and prosperity for themselves. It escalated into a civil war of magic, where the particularly dark necromancers assaulted their magical neighbors. Quite a few other schools, including ours, formed an alliance out of necessity, but it was a losing battle. Schools burned, students beheaded, and we have been on the run after losing two-thirds of our number."

My eyes widened as I looked at the group of refugees. Most of the girls were talking among themselves, likely not understanding Westron. There were about thirty... so sixty more used to be with them, but had died. Sixty children.

"We adopted a few students from rival schools, the last survivors of a now-extinct culture, and we ran. Even as we ran, dark shadows whittled our numbers down until they became what we are now. Shadowbinders bring curses upon us that follow us at night like packs of wolves on a hunt." Khana looked at me. "We seek the protection of the elves. Their life-magic could potentially halt the shadows that follow. But I am uncertain if we will survive until then."

"I'll help," I said, staring at the starving, hurting girls. "I can't abandon you like this."

Khana smiled a painful smile. "I don't know if it will make a difference, but thank you."

We continued to march until nightfall, at which point Khana, Professor Langin and Professor Talia - the last of what was originally seven - stopped the group and dug in. I watched in awe as fortifications rose from the ground, with walls and bastions and armored gates, the walls spiked on the top. Translucent bubbles, somewhat like the shield employed to protect from my arrows earlier, rose over the camp. Professor Talia created great clay golems that patrolled the perimeter. I was thoroughly impressed.

"It's not enough," Khana said grimly. "It is never enough."

The sky was as dark as ink, now. Stars burned, but they looked cold. Winds picked up. I shivered in my clothing as I kept one hand on the hilt of my sword due to a weird sense of uneasiness. Whatever remained of my sensible Hobbit mind screamed at me to hide under a bed and not come out until sunrise. I muttered to myself even as I finally gave into the temptation of drawing my sword. I swung it a couple of times experimentally, patrolling alongside one of the security golems because I didn't want to be on my own.

"Shitty night, huh?" I asked the golem. It didn't respond to my query. I sighed.

The distant howling of wolves startled me. I replaced my sword with the bow, nocking an arrow onto the string but not quite drawing it yet, as my eyes scanned the dark horizon. My eyes had gotten better used to the darkness now, but my vision was still strained. More howling. My hairs stood on end as my most primal urges told me to flee. It sounded like death.

Khana approached me, and I was startled by her appearance to the point I was shoving my arrow at her face. She flinched back. "Apologies."

"No, I apologize," I said quickly. I was more unnerved than I thought.

"They're close," Khana sighed, her grip white-knuckled on her staff. "I can sense their hunger from here. I would wish to face legions of undead over a single pack of hellhounds any day of the week."

"What are hellhounds?" I asked. I probably should've done that earlier.

"Beasts made of shadow and corrupted bones," Khana said grimly. "Twisted caricatures of life. Any wound made by them will be cursed, like venom running through your veins. The effects of the curse will be minimal from small cuts or scratches, but it can be lethal if you let it accumulate."

"Weaknesses?"

"Fire, almost certainly. And life-magic, which we cannot provide; that is why we wish to take sanctuary with the wood-elves." She sighed. "Destroy the bones, and they will be rendered immobile like any other creature, although unfortunately not dead. Burn them to truly kill them, although this method takes quite a while so it might be prudent to avoid burning a still-moving hellhound in case they run into our children in a panic. They also cause great terror. Do not look into their Eye."

"Their eye?"

"They come," Khana suddenly hissed, and raised her staff. A brilliant sphere of light erupted from the tip and began hovering upward, illuminating the region around their wards. My eyes widened as I saw shapes of shadow and the single, red burning eye in the center of their forehead - I looked away quickly, my heart beating madly, faster than I could ever remember it being. I shot an arrow into one of them; it passed straight through, until it struck one of the bones and clattered uselessly to the ground. Bows ineffective, then. I drew my sword.

"How many?" I asked.

"About twenty," Khana murmured. "Enough to kill us all."

"Shit."

"An apt summary."

The beasts charged. Khana raised her staff and a blazing trail of fire rushed at them, but the dark wolves were as nimble as they were fearsome; they expertly dodged the tongues of flames, with one hound even digging underneath a ribbon of fire, quick enough not to be caught. I realized one thing; I was well and truly fucked.

The golems, while powerful, were simply not fast enough to deal with the hounds. It was also while watching a golem being grappled by two hounds that I realized just how massive these hellhounds were. Almost as tall as an elf's shoulder, it was big enough to be ridden on if it had proper flesh instead of shadow. One leaped over the walls, and I rushed to intercept it - but it thankfully bounced off the wards that had been erected earlier.

Khana continued attacking with whips of flame; I could see the two other Professors utilizing similar strategies on the other side of camp. I watched Khana fight, and then my mind screamed at me to duck; I dived to the ground just as one black wolf charged over me, having missed clamping its jaws onto my head. I slashed quickly with my sword, but the force of it from a lying-down position wasn't enough to break its leg; I might have caused a hairline fracture with that strike. I rolled back onto my feet and braced myself for my next target, bouncing at me.

I timed it just right so that I sidestepped the hound's charge while swinging my sword straight into the hound's neck. It yelped, surprisingly realistically, as my blade crunched into its spine. The hound lost control of its body, spasming as it plowed into the ground, its head not fully decapitated and hanging from its shoulders by a thin tendril of smoke.

"Good work," Khana grunted at me. "I've managed to get three."

"I wish I had magic," I muttered grumpily as I covered her back.

The same hound that had tried attacking me before wheeled around and charged again. Like an utter fool, my gaze wandered to its' forehead - and I was instantly paralyzed. Even though Khana shouted at me in warning, I made no move to dodge. I only managed to move my arm at the very large moment, simply because the hound blinked, and it gave me enough time to raise my armored arm in front of my face before my head was split like a melon.

I screamed.

Sharp, jagged teeth pierced through the boiled leather I was wearing in between the gaps of the occasional steel plate. My left arm burned as if one fire, from the inside out. I barely recognized the sensation of my back hitting the raised clay walls at speed. I couldn't do anything, slumped against the wall, except stare at that burning eye in terror. The enemy hadn't gotten my sword arm damaged, but it didn't matter, because I was paralyzed with fear. Dark, black jaws stinking of rotting flesh lolled open, it's jaw more unhinged than it should be and it's tongue longer and sharper than it should be.

The spell was broken when one clay golem took this as an opportunity it smash its massive hands down on the hellhound's back. It's spine and forelimbs utterly shattered, the golem tossed the damaged hellhound away from me and went to find another target. I scrambled up to my feet despite the pain and glanced at Khana, who had undoubtedly orchestrated the miracle. I gripped my sword, lips tightening in pain as my left arm hung limp and useless at my side. I stumbled back into the fray.

I de-limbed another hellhound through sheer luck while Khana managed to get another one. We had managed eight in total - four by Khana, two by me, and two more by the golems. Still, there were three more left. All the golems were destroyed, Khana was out of energy, and I was crippled as well as poisoned; I could see my eyesight becoming more and more blurry, my hearing inaudible, my mind fuzzy. Our chances of survival were low.

I just wished I'd been able to see my sister one more time.

I wasn't entirely certain what I was seeing at the time, but I thought I saw a great white raven swooping down from the sky. The hellhounds shrieked in pain and panic, dodging back into the distance as they sought the shelter of shadows. The great raven must have been as large as dragons; when it landed, though, it did not shake the earth as dragons would, merely caused a soft breeze that washed over me and immediately made me more alert. And happy, too. Like I was sitting on Fleur's lap, a child again, listening to her tell tales in the warm summer afternoons.

Khana had tears in her eyes as her mouth formed syllables without sound. I smiled dopily and closed my eyes. Somehow, I knew that everything was going to be alright, despite my injury and poisoning.

Perhaps it was a hallucination caused by the venom, but I thought I heard the raven speak in a familiar male voice, telling me that I did well. I don't know if the raven said anything else, though, because I fell asleep.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty: Ember**

**(T.A. 2088 - 2110)**

I think this is the last leg of my journey. I spent my entire life on the road, and occasionally drifting off even the most faded paths into the true wilderness. As much as I feel the urge, to explore and discover, as much as my spirit of adventure remains a roaring star, I think my body feels more like an ember. Leftover warmth from the days I burned bright and hot.

The time I write this, it is T.A. 2110 and I am eleventy-one years old. I am officially an old woman. I have returned to the Shire now, and my final journey to the Shire took me twenty-two years, as I did my best to visit all the friends I made on my travels. It took me so much longer than the three previous times that I returned to the Shire, for my sister's wedding, and my mother's and father's respective last days.

I visited Salim from Harad, the carpet merchant whose enthusiasm is infectious. A little further north into Gondor, where I met Elion II, the old, grizzled captain of the guard. Further north to Lothlorien, where I met the eternally beautiful Lady Galadriel - or Ariel, as I knew her in my youth. How time flies, does it not? I couldn't help but feel bitter at how young she remained, while I felt like my bones were actively working against me. Further north, and I entered the Kingdom of Mirkwood - I met King Thranduil, again, alongside the now-calmed-down prince, Legolas. Continuing further up to Erebor, I met Thorin and his wife, Dee, and all his little children (and let me tell you, dwarves without beards are adorable - should you be fortunate enough to see, always treasure the sight).

I visited the Grey Mountains again. Gaby's daughter, Olivie, was welcoming, and I was glad to see that Alduin had remembered my scent and approached me like a scaly little puppy. I gave my respects to the first non-empty tomb in Niflheim's royal catacombs. I continued west to Mount Gundabad, where I met Khana the Sorceress. Her students were in shock - shock, I tell you! - to see the cold, harsh woman being positively _friendly_ with a stranger. I had ended up losing an arm when I helped Khana and her students escape the wrath of rival schools of magic, but I never regretted it. Not when I made a friend as wonderful as her.

I traveled south along the River Anduin. At the edge of the forest, I met Raend, the bear-shifter. He was his usual grumpy self, although now his whiskers were entirely white and I could tell he was approaching the end of his life, just like I am. I gave me a parting gift. A simple cord necklace, adorned with a single bear's claw. I paid my respects to the simple stone gravestone that sat under a willow tree by the river, in honor of Guzbak.

I passed the Misty Mountains with a group of caravans from Dale. As much as I had experience in fighting, I wasn't taking a chance against the goblins with these weary bones. We crossed the pass without incident and I paid the caravans with a single gold coin that was part of Thorin's parting gift to me. I visited Imladris, saw Lord Elrond and Lord Glorfindel once more. It was here that I met someone - or two someones, in fact - that I had never been expecting, even though I had given my entire life to search for them.

As I was leaving breakfast one day, I saw two tall figures in one of the courtyards. At first glance - especially so with my old eyes - they appeared to be elves. Of course, the wind blew at just the right moment and I inhaled an old, familiar scent, a perfume made of what I suspected were jasmines. My breath hitched, and the two figures slowly turned to look at me. Tears came unbidden to my eyes.

"Fleur? Harry?"

There they were, their faces untarnished by time and looking as if they had simply stepped out of the world from ninety-nine years ago, when they first disappeared. Although I couldn't be certain. I had forgotten their faces in the ninety-five years (at that point) since they had disappeared.

I felt like a child again as I ran into Fleur's open arms. She held me, murmured into my hair, rubbing my back as she used to do when I cried as a child. Harry, the smug shit, sat there and remained his assholish self. I still missed the bastard. It took me some time to calm down.

"You've lived a good life," Fleur said with a smile. "I have been watching you."

"Why did you leave?" I asked her. "Why did you leave me like that?"

She cocked her head slightly. "Would you have left if we didn't?"

I despise her wisdom and foresight, sometimes. Lady Galadriel did say that Fleur had apprenticed under her, so I shouldn't be surprised that Fleur was tugging strings from the shadows, even if it led to me living a life that I would never be able to regret.

"What were you doing all this time?" I tried instead.

"We've been spending time with coke and hookers," Harry claimed. I rolled my eyes. I still didn't know what 'coke' was despite the numerous references, but considering Harry was the reason I was and still am so crude, I doubt it is anything good.

"We've been traveling, just like you have," Fleur corrected them. "I want to ask you one question, Amarylla. One question that even I do not have the answer to."

I blinked. "What is it?"

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

My lips twitched upwards on all its own volition. I think Fleur did something to me, to help me remember, because I think at that particular moment in time, less than the time for a breath taken, less than a moment, less than an instant - I remembered every detail of my life. From the moment Fleur entered my life, to the moment she left, and the moment I left home in search of adventure. And with all that in mind, I had my answer.

"Yes."

"I'm glad." Fleur dragged me into her arms again, holding me. "That's all I ever wanted for you."

"Thank you."

"You should know, though, that this was all you." Fleur gestured with one arm at… everything. "I was watching you. I may have told a few friends of mine about a certain adventurous Hobbit. But in the end? You forged your own journey. Your own legend. I never manipulated anything or anyone in your life. In the end, this adventure was all yours - and thus, you have no need to thank me."

I might have cried again.

A month spent with the elves, I set off again to return to the Shire. I did have a few friends in the far west, such the Snowmen on the coast of the Ice Bay of Forochel, but I don't think I had neither the time nor energy to go there and back. My final destination before returning to the Shire was Weathertop. My first real destination in my adventure. That was where the Rangers had placed Thelion's gravestone.

The first mentor, the first friend, I had made on the journey of life.

I think I might have started rambling in front of his gravestone. Were he watching me, hearing me, he would probably have grimaced and told me to shut up. I didn't. Thelion was mean, but he was also nice enough not to follow through with the threats he made to make me shut up. He would have listened.

My voice was hoarse from age, but I sang a song there. One that he'd undoubtedly recognize.

I returned to Bywater over the course of the next month. Elanor, my dearest sister, was waiting for me in our ancestral Tookish Hobbit-hole. My nieces and nephews welcomed me home. Elanor's grandchildren begged me to tell stories, at least after they got over the initial shyness. My mind must be dustier than I thought, because I couldn't remember the names of my grand-nephews and grand-nieces and constantly kept mixing them up.

Elanor gave me a room for me to sleep in and write in. This little room, so very small compared to the wide world, is where I finish writing this book. Nowadays, it is difficult enough to travel from one end of the room to the other - I oftentimes wonder how I managed to walk tens of thousands of miles when I was younger, all the way east to the Sea of Rhun, all the way south to Far Harad, all the way north to the Grey Mountains and all the way west to the Grey Havens. My fingers are cramped and it becomes difficult to write. I am just happy that my remaining hand will last long enough for me to complete this tale for your pleasure, dear readers.

I await my death in this little room of mine. As wide as the windows are, I fear that it will never be the same as the sun beating violently down on my skin. I sit on the rocking chair outside the door, but the wind will never taste the same as the howling gales in the Grey Mountains. My staying here in the Shire, a cozy but undeniably small place, truly makes me understand just how small we all are, in the end.

But that's okay. I like to think that the world is huge, rather than myself being small. Huge enough that I wouldn't be able to explore it all with all my life, as I have just proved. But that's okay. It leaves more to be explored by others and, hopefully, more to be written down and shared with us all. Everything is okay.

Everything is just fine.


	9. Chapter 9

**T.A. 2463, August**

Harry slid a bishop across the board. "Check."

His oldest enemy and now casual acquaintance took a long drag on his pipe, smoke blowing from his nostrils. The dapper-looking young gentleman was exactly what you might expect an up-and-coming actor in the 40s to look like; his dark-brown hair was slicked back nearly over his pale head, and he was dressed in a tweed three-piece suit, tailored to fit his lithe frame. Aside from his unusual fashion in Middle-Earth, the only thing that might belie his nature as something more than an attractive gentleman were the intense red eyes.

"You've gotten better," Tom commented casually as he decided to block the bishop with a knight.

"I've been playing more often recently," Harry agreed. "There are a few people I know who are always up for a game now, instead of just Ron and Fleur occasionally."

"Yes, you've told me about a few of them. Why did you choose to bring me out now, and here?"

"You always ask that. Don't you believe me when I say I miss you?"

"Oh, for certain. It says a lot about you that you miss a former genocidal Dark Lord who attempted to kill you at birth," Tom said dryly. "You and I both know it's not true. Now, tell me, why have I been awoken?"

"You're right, I don't miss you much. Most of the time I forget to bring you out every month as we agree anyway," Harry nodded. "As for why? Well, you're about to witness the moment that evil corrupts a formerly unambitious soul."

"Oh, how exciting. I do always love watching minds and souls being poisoned by evil," Tom said with mock giddiness. "You do understand that if you so wished, you could take the Ring right here and now, saving the rest of the world several hundred years of trouble in fighting off Sauron?"

"I could, but I'm not that selfless," Harry opened up one of his rooks by sliding a pawn forward. "If I were a Good Samaritan then I would've gotten rid of the Ring a few hundred years ago already. I'm sure Lady Galadriel knows that I intend to treat the deaths of elves, Men and dwarves against dragons, Balrogs and orc armies as personal entertainment."

"And she is in no position to accuse you of anything since she has been doing nothing for longer than you have."

"Precisely. Masters of procrastination, those elves are. I'm rather impressed by them."

"You're a terrible human being, you must surely understand?"

"I've come to terms with that long ago. Also, pot, meet kettle."

"Oh, I wasn't shaming you. If anything, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."

"As if I'd style myself after you. Your sense of fashion was terrible and you had a literal snake-face. You cannot get more stereotypically villain than that. Your snake-lisp also didn't earn you any points in the intimidation department."

Tom sighed. "You have no right to lecture me. You had the trenchcoat-and-sunglasses phase, do you not remember? And you were mistaken in the United States for a Columbine apologist."

"Oh, shut up. I don't want to hear it from someone who basically invented school massacres in the Magical world."

"You covered the world in nuclear fire, Harry."

"So? It's not like I aimed them specifically at the schools."

Tom sighed and shook his head in exasperation, as there was a faint splash from the nearby lake, as if someone had fallen into it. There was some shouting, splashing, and other sorts of adventure-y noises. Harry and his chess opponent ignored them, basking in the sunlight and enjoying their game.

"Where is your wife, by the way?"

"She's having tea parties with the elves, I'm sure. She likes tea a lot for someone who's not even English."

"Speaking of tea," Tom said, a fine china teacup and saucer appearing in his hands and filling with amber liquid, "I'm shocked and horrified that you chose not to offer it to me."

"I didn't choose not to offer it to you. It honestly slipped my mind, considering I've gone for so long without even considering basic amenities for an imprisoned Dark Lord," Harry retorted, pulling a bottle of ginger beer from nothingness. "But now that you mention it, I do apologize. It was unbecoming of me."

"You are always unbecoming. Alas, I accept your apology," Tom said graciously, raising his cup in Harry's direction before taking a delicate sip.

"You know, I think I like this place," Harry said, glancing around. The hamlet that lay on the banks of a small creek that diverted and eventually rejoined the River Anduin was similar to the Shire in climate; warm, but not hot, winters mild, populated by Men and occasional Hobbits towards the outskirts. The creeks were rich with aquatic life. The terrain was, unlike the Shire, flat, occasionally divided by ponds and creeks, but otherwise open, rich in nutrients; this lead to wide farms by the riverbanks where golden wheat grew like forests. The abundance of food attracted folk to the town a mile from the farmlands, leading to a population boom.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. And I think we can stay for a while longer, if you want," Harry said. "Because I do remember that serving girl making big doe eyes at you. I was wondering if you were interested."

Tom shrugged, but didn't dismiss it outright. It wasn't as if the serving girl was unattractive - just the opposite, actually. She wasn't much compared to Tom, naturally, but then again, not many people were. "I can't say I dislike her. I'm not interested in sexual relationships, however. Not after you… convinced me, otherwise."

"Please, these are the Middle-Ages. I doubt you'd score anything before you got married," Harry said. "Although… people probably get married after two months in places like these. Unless they had an arranged marriage, in which case the courting period is even shorter."

"I also don't think people will be impressed by someone of my stature," Tom said, glancing at his perfectly shaped and polished nails as an example. "I have clearly not done a single day of manual labor in my life, and it shows."

"Yeah, you let the other grunts do it."

"The only way to do manual labor." Harry and Tom disagreed on many things, but this wasn't one of them.

"So, what say you? I was planning to stay for a few more weeks, just to see how it goes, and extend the stay if you wanted. Otherwise, I thought I might go visit Mirkwood again."

"I'm indifferent. If you were planning to stay regardless, then perhaps I will indulge myself in a bit of romance, to try and warm my cold, dead heart," Tom said. "Otherwise, I have no complaints with your current plan."

"Need me to put you back in the locket? You sure your pampered feet won't get sore after hiking?"

"Harry, I grew up in an orphanage during the Second World War, where rationing was extreme," Tom said. "I was still less malnourished than you were during your stay with the Dursleys."

Harry got a wistful look on his face. "I wonder what Dudley is doing nowadays. Actually, never mind, I don't want to know."

Tom snorted. "The utter imbecile you share your genes with is likely complaining about the state of the economy and the underlying causes of it, which include immigrants, universal healthcare, and the European Union."

"I doubt it. Dudley wouldn't know what those words mean."

Tom chuckled. "You're right. He's probably content throwing darts at a photograph of you on the wall, then."

"Yeah, that's more like it."

Harry and Tom focused on the growing sounds of conflict in the distance. It sounded like two amateurs to fighting trying to beat each other up; sounds of slapping, grunting and shouts of 'mine, mine, mine!' echoed through the plains. Tom's already unnatural eyes morphed into something similar to that of a reptile, with vertical slits, and they narrowed in the direction of the two halflings struggling with each other for the Ring.

"I can see the corruption," Tom commented, standing up and smoothing his pants. "It's very interesting magic working on the pitiful creature. Would you mind if I take a closer look?"

Harry's posture and expression did not change, but the air was suddenly tight, bursting with magical energy. "I would mind, actually. Sit back down, please."

Tom smiled, but not in a particularly kind way. It did not reach the intense red eyes. "But I am overcome with a need to study the magic. I think if I study it, I'll finally be free of your chains."

"And we can't have that now, can we?" Harry asked. "Sit down."

Tom lunged in the direction of the Ring.

Harry thrust his palm out towards Tom, and a wave of raw power pushed down on Tom like the effects of gravity, forcing him down onto the ground even as the ground around him began to sink with the weight of it. The air around Harry hummed with power, like static electricity waiting to be released with a touch, and Harry wore no expression as he clasped his hands behind his back and watched his enslaved Dark Lord.

"You won't be getting your hands on that Ring," Harry said, even as he raised his own Occlumency barriers to full in hopes of resisting the Ring. "You will not be free. When I am dead, you will lose the last person capable of undoing the binds I have created between you and Slytherin's locket. You will remain in eternal torture; that's the whole point."

"A shame," Tom drawled as the pressure relieved and allowed him to stand up. He brushed casually at his dusty tweed outfit and it was once again clean and sharp.

"Not particularly. You were perhaps the vilest Voldemort I had the displeasure to encounter. I do not enjoy lobotomizing people, Tom, but after witnessing some of your more… sexual sadisms, especially those performed on children, I can't say I regret doing it." Harry's eyes narrowed. "I don't care if I myself burned down most of your old memories and personality. You won't be allowed close to any power that might unleash you again. I will guarantee you that."

Tom glared coolly at Harry, before dissolving on his own will. Harry snapped shut Slytherin's locket. He stood there in silence for a few minutes, before coming to a decision and, with one final glance at the putrid magic coming from the other side of the pond, he turned in the direction of Mirkwood and began to hike.

* * *

Luthirien was an elf-maiden of Mirkwood. She was a fairly young maiden, only a little over four hundred years old. She was of the so-called 'Last Generation' of elves, and that was a frightening thought. She was on a walk, on the outskirts of Mirkwood. It was an act that both her family and the Mirkwood guards disapproved of, but it was sometimes necessary. To clear her mind, to listen to the breeze and trees, to heard the calling of birds. She had not been disturbed on her long walks, and she wasn't going to stop soon.

She hummed under her breath, an old lullaby that her mother often sang. It was stuck in her head and she hoped that letting it out would remove it from her mind. She stepped with natural elfin grace over a snaking tree root that would have tripped her if not for her agility.

"Caw."

Luthirien looked upwards to find a raven - could it even be called a raven? It was certainly large for a raven, perhaps at least twice as much as any raven Luthirien had seen before. She'd even call it the size of a large hawk. It twisted its head to the side to stare at Luthirien with eyes full of an unnatural intelligence. It took little steps down the tree into lower branches.

Luthirien's breath hitched as the raven approached, ever so slowly. Ravens were not known for their good reputation, but what could it do? The way it was hopping down the tree branches was rather adorable. She hesitantly held out a hand, fingers clenched in case the raven thought it might make for a tasty snack. And with the size of him, Luthirien had no doubt that beak could take her fingers off if it wanted.

It hopped forward and bumped its head against her knuckles. Luthirien smiled.

And that was how Luthirien made a new friend on her walk. She picked up the raven - and goodness, wasn't it heavy! - and spoke to it as she walked. She asked it its name - "caw," the raven replied - and Luthirien introduced herself in return. She happily regaled the raven about her family, about her mother and father and her older sister Fenlas and about the little brown cat that visited their house sometimes in search of food. The raven kept butting its head at her chest, snuggling into her bosom, and it was all she could do not to squee and accidentally scare off the bird.

"So, Caw," Luthirien said with a smile. "Would you prefer to stay in the trees? Or would you like to join us in Mirkwood?"

"Mirkwood," the raven said in a high-pitched voice. Luthirien blinked. "Mirkwood?" It repeated, as if uncertain, cocking its head.

"Mirkwood," Luthirien nodded, smiling. What an intelligent bird!

She pulled the bird close to her breasts and decided to return to the settlement. She passed a few of the guards who gave her and her avian friend strange looks. She hummed happily and continued on. She reached the edge of the settlement and the raven suddenly looked up at her.

"Thandy," it said. "Thandy?"

"Thandy?" Luthirien cocked her head. "Is that your name?"

The bird shook its head sideways in a cute manner. "Thandy," it insisted. "King Thandy."

"King Thranduil?" Luthirien gaped in surprise. "How do you know that?"

"King Thandy," the bird nodded in confimation. "King Thandy."

"I - I will take you to him," Luthirien said, too bewildered to do anything else. She petted the bird absently as it tried to nest itself back between her breasts. This bird was a lot smarter than it let on - perhaps it'd been King Thranduil's pet sometime in the past? She'd never seen the King with the bird, but, well, everyone had hobbies, she supposed.

"Halt," one guard said. "What is your business with the King?"

In response, Luthirien held out the bird. The guards stared at her as if she were crazy. "Go on," Luthirien urged the bird.

The bird remained silent. The little shit.

"Are you alright, miss?" The other guard asked in mild concern.

"Yes, yes, of course," Luthirien said, blushing. "It's just that… this bird knew King Thranduil's name, even if it couldn't pronounce it properly. I was so shocked… I was wondering if it was important."

"What do you mean?"

"Thandy," the bird supplied helpfully. "King Thandy."

"O-kay," the first guard said slowly. "I don't think this is so big a deal that we'd bother the King for it."

"Asshole," the bird chirped. The guards stared at it incredulously. Luthirien could feel her face burning hotter and pulled the bird back to her chest before it could embarrass her further.

"Well, it ain't wrong," the second guard muttered. "It's definitely smarter than it looks. Maybe it's a messenger bird?"

"Maybe," the first guard grunted. "Would explain why it's so big. Might need to travel long distances."

"Who was it sent from?" The second guard asked. Then it looked the bird in the eye, and spoke; "who sent you?"

"Gandalf," the bird chirped. Luthirien didn't know who that was, but judging by the way the guards exchanged looks with one another, and let her pass, it must have been someone important. She found herself in the throne room, on the far side King Thranduil sitting in a throne from carved oak and his advisors speaking with him in hushed tones on a long table before the throne.

"Yes?" One of the advisors noticed her entrance.

"Um," Luthirien stammered. "I met this bird at the outskirts of Mirkwood, and… I was talking to it. I know," she added quickly at the looks she was given, "but it's very smart. It very specifically mentioned you, King Thranduil, and when I was speaking with the guards outside, it said it had a message from Gandalf."

The advisors and the King shared looks much like the ones shared outside by the guards. "Very well," King Thranduil spoke softly. "What is the message?"

"Thandy, you need a bath," the bird chirped. The advisors around the King in question went very, very still. Luthirien dropped the bird in shock, with the bird squawking in surprise and annoyance. King Thranduil was staring at the bird like it was something he'd never seen before.

"Luthirien taught me," the bird continued. Luthirien gasped audibly as the advisors stood up and began shouting in outrage. She felt tears stinging at her eyes, an intense feeling of hatred for the bird. It took her a moment to notice that the King had simply sighed and rubbed his face tiredly.

"Be silent." At once, the advisors stopped. "Harry, what is your business?"

In front of her very eyes, the bird warped; grew into a humanoid figure made of shadow, and solidified into a rather tall and handsome Man with striking green eyes. He directed a mischievous smirk and wink in Luthirien's direction. Her jaw dropped onto the floor. Then he turned to King Thranduil and spoke.

"Have a few things I wanna talk about. Meanwhile, is your daughter around? I'm sure she's been missing me."

"She most assuredly has not missed you, Harry."

"Please. Her boyfriend was a total bore anyway."

Luthirien returned to her senses and felt anger bubbling up in her gut. "You were touching my chest the whole time!"

'Harry' glanced at her. "Yeah. You should be proud of them."

Luthirien did not hear the rest of what he had to say. She's already fled the hall in outrage.

* * *

"Why must you do this?" Thranduil sighed. The sorcerer was ten years early for his visit! Thranduil did not have the time necessary to prepare to deal with this infuriating sorcerer so early. "Go apologize to her."

"I'll make it up to her." Harry's eyebrows waggled.

"Not in that way, you utter fool," Thranduil snapped. Then sighed again. He was allowed to, if he was dealing with Harry. "You understand that her older sister is Fenlas, yes?"

Harry paused. "Shit," he said.

"Indeed." Thranduil allowed himself a grim smile at the mental image of Fenlas, one of Harry's oldest flings, chasing Harry around with a broomstick. "But you said you had business. State it."

"Top-secret information, Thandy-pants," Harry said, wagging his finger. "Tell the nerds to get outta here and we'll talk."

The advisors looked close to mutiny, but Thranduil could only sigh and nod at them. Like Luthirien, they left in a huff, offended by the Man's lack of propriety and tact. Harry parked his backside on Legolas' throne, cracking his knuckles.

"Well?" Thranduil asked.

Harry leaned in. "I see dead people," he whispered.

Thranduil wanted to strike him.

"Fine, fine. I mean, I wasn't lying - I'm here to tell you that a Necromancer has taken up residence on the south of your forest."

Thranduil sat up straighter. Now that was news. "Truly? Do you know where?"

"Dol Guldur, I think it's called," Harry said with a shrug. "I could smell it - dead people don't bathe that often, you see. But I decided I would consult you before I burned the southern half of the forest down."

"Yes, that was a wise decision on your part," Thranduil said flatly. "Have you told anyone else?"

"Not really. I haven't told Fleur because I wanted an excuse to visit Galadriel again."

Thranduil sincerely hoped that Lady Galadriel didn't reciprocate the idiot's attention. He was a plague upon elfkind. And mankind. And even dwarves. Harry was a pest to just about all life, if he was honest.

"This is not good news. I will notify my allies of this development."

"Except Galadriel."

"Except Lady Galadriel," Thranduil agreed tiredly. "Don't you have someone else to bother?"

"Yeah, you're a bit boring because you've gotten used to me. Any idea where Legolas is? I want to fuck with him."

* * *

Legolas was, in fact, at the arena, working on his swordsmanship under Haldir's tutelage. Harry cast muffling charms and disillusionment charms on himself before he approached. The elves had damn good hearing, as he'd learned from experience. Furthermore, the stealth charms would also drastically reduce his chances of being ambushed and gutted by Fenlas, the most feisty elf this side of Tauriel.

Legolas was very good at archery, but apparently Haldir felt that his swordsmanship could use the practice. And it was clear to see the gap in skill between them. Haldir's movements flowed naturally like a river, from one form to another, perfectly efficient with no wasted movements, his defenses offensive and his offenses simultaneously defensive. Legolas was fast, strong, and agile, as all elves seemed to be, but his style was still brutish, relying on strength behind his blows and relying on his admittedly impressive speed.

Harry's finger twitched. Legolas tripped over his own feet and faceplanted. Harry bit down hard on his knuckles to keep himself from violently laughing - not even muffling charms were perfect, after all, and there's no reason to attract attention.

Haldir had no such complications and guffawed heartily as Legolas crawled up, face burning in embarrassment and irritation.

"What was that?" Haldir laughed. "And earlier you were telling me how unfair it was that you'd been barred from patrols!"

"I don't know what happened," Legolas said, his face flushed. But obviously, he couldn't explain that a sorcerer had made him trip without looking like an utter fool.

"You don't know what happened because you don't have the experience," Haldir said in a grave tone. Eventually he couldn't hold it in and burst out laughing again. "By Valar, I wish your father had been around to see that."

"I was around to see it," Thranduil's soft voice cut across the arena, and Haldir redoubled in his laughter while Legolas turned bright red. "Although I do believe him that it was not his fault necessarily."

"What?" And Haldir was suddenly alert, his eyes scanning the clearing. Gone was the jovial, sarcastic personality, replaced with the cold, calculating general and bodyguard.

"At ease, Haldir," Thranduil reassured. "It just so happens that I was visited by a… frustrating warlock earlier regarding sensitive matters. He soon got bored and decided to, and I quote, 'fuck with Legolas', unquote."

Legolas groaned. "But he's not due for another ten years."

"Like I said, sensitive matters that needed reporting. Also, Legolas, he can likely hear you."

Harry's finger twitched again and Legolas promptly slapped himself in the face. Haldir snorted, although his face was the very image of innocence when Legolas turned to glare at him. Even Thranduil was struggling to keep the smile from his face. Harry was basically a walking, talking schadenfreude once you thought about it.

"Come on out, Harry," Legolas sighed.

"No can do," Harry replied, cancelling only the muffling charm. "I need to hide from Fenlas."

"What did you do?" As one of Fenlas' closest friends, Legolas understood full well what happened to your health when you upset her.

"I may have snuggled up to her younger sister."

"Yes, you're not getting my help out of that one."

"But that's okay!" Harry stepped out from the bushes and the three elves did a double take; a fairly impressive imitation of Tauriel stood, one hand on her hip, her lips twisted into a half-smirk that the real Tauriel would never do. "I'm pretty good at hiding, if I do say so myself. God knows I've hidden from Fleur enough times."

"What sensitive matters brought you here?" Legolas asked, his eyes searching for his father's. They met, and Thranduil nodded, giving permission.

"Well, there's a necromancer in the south of your forest," Harry said, gesturing southwards. "Whom I suspect might be Sauron, but who knows."

"S-?" Legolas cut himself off, his eyes widening. "The Enemy?" He hissed in askance.

"Aren't too many adept necromancers in this day and age if you exclude Sauron or his top generals."

"Don't speak his name, not if he is as close as you say he is," Thranduil barked. Then more quietly: "you did well to bring us this information. How long ago did you confirm this?"

Harry shrugged. "I was traveling along the River Anduin. I felt dark magic at work along the southern portion of the forest. I decided not to investigate too closely in case I alerted whomever was living there. I haven't _confirmed_ the identity of the necromancer, but it feels rather obvious."

The three elves were silent for a moment.

"What do you know about necromancy?" Haldir asked. "Since you are the foremost expert on magic between the four of us."

"Mh. I know a little. Drabbled in some of the less harmful death magics before." Legolas recoiled slightly at that, but Harry raised his palm. "Nothing major. See, for the most part, necromancy is split into two major categories. The first is puppeting corpses. You use formerly living bodies and infuse them with magic, which firstly prevents them from decaying, and secondly, gives you metaphorical strings to puppet them. Since the bodies don't decay, it retains the strength the corpse's living counterpart had. Fairly easy magic, not even all that evil beyond desecrating corpses, and if you find the corpse of a giant or a troll, then quite useful as an obedient bodyguard that can't feel pain."

"Second is the less pleasant side of necromancy; dragging back souls from the afterlife into the world. This gives your corpses a form of tortured sentience. If it doesn't drive the souls completely insane, it will make them desperate to kill you or whatever command they've been given so they can return to where they belong. If you're skilled enough in this, you can probably stitch souls together, mixing memories and skills and talents, as well as multiplying their magical power - with enough souls together, the now-single entity could probably cast magic on its own."

"And… there is a third category which is very difficult to do. Rarely seen outside of really nasty and very stupid characters, like Voldemort or Herpo the Foul - not that you'd know of them. Sacrificial magic - using the death and suffering of others to enhance your own half-life. Extend your lifespan, increase your magical power, augment your body, that sort of thing. More often known as blood magic, because it requires blood to be spilled as part of that sacrifice. Often used in sacrificial rituals to gods, but some shady folk have turned it into rituals with themselves, not nonexistent gods, at the center - and this has warped them into something dark and frustratingly difficult to put down."

Thranduil spoke. "And I suppose you felt the second and third parts at work?"

"Yeah, they're quite distinctive."

"How do you fight necromancy?" Haldir asked, curious.

"Plenty of ways. If it's just corpses, you could probably use a lot of fire and be done with it. If it's souls, then you need to seal them away or destroy them - Dementors would be ideal…" he muttered under his breath, then continued. "But it's not impossible. If it's rituals, though, then you have no choice except to destroy the dude who's empowering himself. Oh, and you can always fight necromancy with more necromancy!"

"No, thank you," Legolas muttered.

"Yeah, there's a lot of stigma against it. Fleur threw a fit when I created Fields of Dead," Harry sighed. "It was such a useful spell, too - mostly harmless, sometimes even protective! See, the idea was to use ancestral spirits in defense of a location, and ancestral spirits are always going to be protective of their offspring… it's good for everyone. I never understood why it was getting so much hate."

"Could it have something to do with the fact that you do things without explaining to others first?" Haldir asked.

"Counterpoint, I reported the necromancer to Thranduil before blowing up the entire continent," Harry argued. "Anyway. If you ladies are satisfied, I think I will make my way to Lothlorien so I can see the beautiful Lady Galadriel."

"Contact me again when you agree upon a course of action with Lady Galadriel," Thranduil said, and Harry saluted him.

"Will do, sir. Well, I'll be off now."

With a small, anticlimactic _pop_ , Harry disappeared. Thranduil sighed. For centuries, there had been rumors of a necromancer in Amon Lanc - but merely that, rumors. Though darkness was prevalent in the south of Mirkwood, Dol Guldur had thought to be a symptom and not the source. Nobody had confirmed that the Necromancer was indeed Sauron - and Harry had not confirmed it, either - but if anyone knew about necromancy, it would be Harry. His magical knowledge was unmatched even by the likes of Lady Galadriel or the Istari.

"Haldir," Thranduil called, and the dependable elf stood at attention. "I want increase patrols on the southern flank of our kingdom. Also, if there are any new recruits, make sure they are whipped into shape. We might see a war coming against the darkness if the White Council decides to attack."

"Yes, my King," Haldir said, and marched off. Legolas glanced at his father, who continued to stare at the space Harry had occupied until a minute ago.

"Would we win?" Legolas asked curiously.

"I believe we will, but at what cost?" Thranduil asked. "It all depends on how strong the Necromancer's forces are currently, and who aids us in our war. Lady Galadriel has not left her realm since she has founded it, in fear that her kingdom may be invaded in her absence. In that case, would she give us her aid? How many of the Istari would be willing to support us; I could count perhaps on Radagast and Mithrandir's support, but what of the strongest Istar, Saruman?"

"Surely Harry would enjoy dismantling the Necromancer, if the latter is indeed the Enemy as he says," Legolas pointed out. "Harry is not one to let go of potential bragging rights."

Thranduil pulled a face. "You're right. I'm sure he'd come along, especially if Lady Galadriel does - he'd want to show off in front of her."

Legolas snorted. "I imagine Lady Galadriel views Harry as an excitable pup who tries to impress her at every turn."

"A pup the size of a dragon with fangs of steel and eyes that can see within your mind," Thranduil said. "You'd do best not to underestimate him, even if he acts like a fool. While I suspect that he is indeed as carefree as he appears to be, he is also using this as a cloak to hide his true power."

Legolas closed his mouth. "I understand."

"He has enough raw power to make you fall over, make you slap yourself _for a prank_ ," Thranduil stressed. "Should he see you on the opposite side of a battlefield? He may use the same amount of power to make you stab yourself in the eye." Legolas shuddered. "Be very wary. His stakes in the survival of Middle-Earth is significantly lower than ours. Should he ever show signs of turning to the darkness, report to myself or Lady Galadriel immediately."

"Yes, father."

"Good. You understand. I shall allow you to accompany Haldir's company on patrols - there will be more of it soon enough. Your extra hands will be needed." Thranduil nodded to his son. "Dismissed, Legolas."

Legolas nodded and walked away. A minute later, gathering his thoughts, Thranduil followed him.

* * *

**T.A. 2463, October**

"Nice to meet you, Sorryman," Harry said pleasantly.

"Saruman," Saruman replied through ground teeth.

"Yes, Soggyman. Now, how are you today?" He turned to Lady Galadriel.

"Well, thank you," Galadriel said politely. "And yourself?"

"Very good," he confirmed. "Very good indeed. I get to see you again, I get to see Superman for the first time, I get to see my old pal Gandalf and I get to watch Glorfindel make a fool of himself again,"

"The only fool we see at these meetings is you ineffectually courting Lady Galadriel," Glorfindel lazily replied.

"Yes, well, at least I'm self-aware." Harry clapped his hands together. "So, good news, everyone! There is a Necromancer in the south of Mirkwood that's starting to become a serious problem!"

"How can that be good news?" Gandalf asked even as Radagast nodded in confirmation.

"Because we get to exercise extreme violence!" Harry said.

"How has someone not tried to kill you in these sorts of meetings yet?" Glorfindel asked.

"Oh, there's no lack of trying, believe me. Personally I think the next person to try will be Scrotuman."

"You're not even trying to make it close to my name anymore," Saruman grumbled.

"How could you accuse me of something like that, Smellyman?"

"Enough, Harry," Gandalf said, and Harry pouted. "Despite your animosity to him, Saruman is a capable and wise individual. You should let him contribute to the discussion instead of making childish insults."

"Thank you, Gandalf," Saruman inclined his head in the gray-robed individual's direction even as Harry muttered under his breath. "Harry, do you know the exact breadth of the Necromancer's operations?"

"I didn't get all up close and personal. Not as if I wanted to," Harry shrugged. "But I could feel it from quite far away, even despite their measures to try and keep themselves hidden, so I'd say quite big. I suspect whoever this fellow is, they're also using rituals to gain strength - or maybe recover strength, who knows."

"Blood rituals," Radagast said, disgusted.

"Indeed," Saruman agreed. "If it is indeed Sauron, then the theory that he may be using rituals to recover his strength would make sense. Using the sacrifice of innocents to fuel his power…"

Harry cleared his throat. "Sacrifice of innocents - that's a bit of a misconception. If anything, the fact that he lives in a part of a forest that nobody likes visiting suggests he has a lack of innocents."

"Explain."

"I will." Harry stood up and morphed into a beautiful redheaded woman; he? She? Conjured a blackboard behind the table and began to write. She leaned over slightly, accentuating his - her - very shapely behind. "You see, you can actually use any living creature to make sacrifices. Mundane animals don't result in much power, though, not as much as humans. See, ideally you'd use innocents or virgins because they're more pure; results in less corruption of the ritual process. But you could also use a former whore with seven missing teeth; the only problem is that your ritual process wouldn't be 'pure', in layman's terms, and you'd end up becoming all the more corrupted on the other side."

Harry pointed at Glorfindel. "Yes, you have a question?"

"Were you born a maiden who would prefer to take form of a man, or were you born a man who would prefer to take form of a maiden?"

"Glorfindel, I was born a man and I prefer to take form of a man - this is just my 'Sexy Teacher' costume. Please start thinking with the head on your shoulders, and not the other head." Harriet turned back to the blackboard, drawing a few simple diagrams that explained ritual sacrifice, although to most of the table it looked like gibberish. "The only real source of sacrificial lambs that I'd say this necromancer has regular access to, are corrupted life forms… orcs, goblins, so on."

"So the Necromancer would come out ever more corrupted on the other side," Gandalf said slowly.

"Ten points to Gryffindor. But yes, I'd imagine so. The only problem is this." Harry turned to look at them. "Each time Sauron - or whomever it is - becomes more corrupted, they also become more unpredictable. They might become stronger in the same way a troll is stronger than a bull, despite the fact that the bull is less 'corrupted' than the troll. You can't extrapolate Sauron's strength from what it was the last time you guys saw him."

The White Council mulled this over as Harry returned to normal and the blackboard disappeared behind him. For the first time, Galadriel spoke up. "Harry, would you say there is any possibility of my realm being attacked in my absence?"

Harry shrugged. "How would I know? I'm not omniscient, though it might seem like it to all of you. My best guess is yes, if you stay away long enough. It's your influence that effectively casts a giant notice-me-not over your city, so if you chose to leave, then all the nasty things that go bump in the night would be able to detect and attack your city."

"I cannot risk the wellbeing of my people," Galadriel murmured. "Until it can be guaranteed that they will not come to harm, I cannot join any assault on Dol Guldur."

"Then we should not proceed with the assault," Saruman spoke. "Without the power of Lady Galadriel, I suspect we would not be successful."

"You could leave Fleur in charge of keeping your city safe," Harry offered. "She knows what she's doing, and she's done security details before back when we were both Auror commanders."

Galadriel looked uneasy. "I trust Lady Fleur, but…"

"Why not bring Lady Fleur to the assault instead?" Gandalf asked. "Or is there such a large gap between her and Lady Galadriel's power?"

"Galadriel probably has more power and more skill," Harry admitted. "Although Fleur can probably do more things with her magic. Magic where I come from is more than a little different than what it's like over here."

"We should postpone this attack, then," Saruman said. "Sauron has always been much greater in power than the other Maiar - even if he is weakened, should the Necromancer prove to be Sauron, or Valar forbid, something darker and greater, we would not be able to win against it."

"I'm guessing I would be useless in this expedition?" Glorfindel asked.

"You'd be relegated to bodyguard duty," Harry agreed. "Your skill lies in being able to decapitate things, but against a necromancer, you'll likely be going up against things that don't have physical form or things that have no problem getting decapitated."

Glorfindel grunted.

"I will consult with Lady Fleur," Galadriel suddenly spoke up. "I do trust her, though it may not sound like it. I should like to help with the threat of the necromancer if I can - I will attempt to teach Fleur the magicks that defend my people, and I will return to you with an answer at least sometime within the next year."

"Hm," Saruman said, surprised. "Should the White Council meet again in one year? If Lady Galadriel agrees to escort us to attack the Tower of Sorcery, we shall strike at the necromancer." The Council members nodded in agreement. "Very well. Meeting adjourned, then - we shall see each other one year from now."


	10. Chapter 10

**T.A. 2464, November**

The party heading to Dol Guldur was rather diminished compared to expectations. At the head of the group was Gandalf, followed by Harry, Fleur, and Glorfindel. Four people - not exactly the best odds against the 'greatest evil of their time', even if it wasn't confirmed.

" _Aux armes, citoyens_!" Harry sang obnoxiously. " _Formez, vos battalions! Marchons, marchons, Qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons_."

"Your accent is terrible," Fleur commented. "After so many years, too. I'm disappointed."

"What is he singing?" Gandalf asked.

"The French national anthem," Fleur replied.

"Does this place always stink this badly?" Glorfindel asked, eyes darting left and right, always watching. He might not be a wizard, but he was still a famed warrior, and his tactical proficiency was unparalleled. He might even be useful as a human shield against the Nazgul.

"No. It's the smell of death," Harry responded. "I told you there's a necromancer here. Do try to keep up."

"Right, right." Glorfindel rolled his eyes. Then he gestured in front of them. "There it is. Amon Lanc."

Harry and Fleur squinted, seeing nothing. "Bloody elves," Harry muttered under his breath.

"I do wish Saruman had chosen to come," Gandalf sighed. "I do not understand why he'd let us go on our own, if this is as dangerous as it seemed."

"Because if you die, the Valar might finally send a lady Istar?" Harry wondered.

"...perhaps," Gandalf admitted grudgingly. "But I don't think that's it."

"It probably doesn't matter anyway," Harry said. "I don't think he can woo anyone until he shaves that beard."

"Surely shaving it will bare his double-chin to the world," Fleur argued. "Why do you think all the Istari wear beards?"

"Is there a point to this bullying?" Gandalf asked.

The four of them continued onward towards the Bald Hill - well, not bald anymore - as quietly as they could. Fleur clutched her war-staff, a pretty thing made of eucalyptus, the wood itself carrying a pinkish tinge and adorned with runes made of gold thread. She brushed at her throat; she was wearing her full collection of Arkenstone jewelry, including the upgraded Ravenclaw's Diadem, which would hopefully continue to give her wisdom, mental strength, and clarity in battle.

She was foregoing her usual style of dress for an outfit made out of treated and reinforced dragonhide; plates of dark steel covered everywhere except the joints. Harry also carried his war-staff and wore armor, though he preferred mobility over defense and usually didn't wear the plate-armor. This time was no different. He looked rather like a Ranger of the North, with his dark wardrobe.

Glorfindel was wearing Harry's spare dragonhide outfit, magically resized to fit him. Oddly enough, it was Gandalf who wore the same sized clothing as Harry did, proved by how he wore Harry's second spare outfit with ease. The stubborn fool refused to give up his pointy wizard's hat in favor of a helmet, though. Fleur could see the appeal of pointy wizard's hats; it would not do to face against a Dark Lord without style. But it probably wasn't very healthy.

"I see it, now," Fleur whispered, eyes on the circular fortress. Its history as a former elfin capital had been all but erased; it was now all steel and dark stone, with lingering shadows. Harry squinted. Her eyesight was better than his, even after he fixed his own eyesight with magic.

"We should be attacking during daytime," Harry said. "It's too dark for me to see anything."

"It _is_ daytime," Gandalf replied. "A perpetual storm hangs over Dol Guldur, not unlike that over Mordor. All these - shadows - don't help either." He grunted, twisting his leg out from underneath him.

Fleur looked down. The road was covered in - shadow, as Gandalf put it. It wasn't exactly that; after all, the shadow didn't have an owner, it was more like a dark mist swirling at their feet. It was not pleasant. It was like a spiderweb made of darkness; it floated and fluttered with every breeze, but clung to everyone's boots and proved difficult to remove. Fleur assumed that her hereditary fire-affinity had something to do with the inch or so of space the shadow gave her, compared to everyone else, who struggled.

"Stop," Glorfindel hissed, and everyone froze. Only their eyes darted every which way.

Fleur cast her gaze along the visible horizon. Nothing there. She focused and began to radiate magic; minuscule, undetectable amounts, several thousand pulses per second. However, her magic was quickly shut down, and her eyes widened before sensations of reassurance radiated from her soul-bond. Her eyes flickered to Harry, who had not moved. More emotions. More concepts. Discovery. Enemy, magic-user, proficient.

Right. Her enemy was a potent sorcerer. Best not to take chances.

"We've been spotted," Glorfindel breathed to the rest of them, voice only audible due to the eerie silence.

"Spotted by what?" Gandalf whispered back.

"Not certain. Very, very small. Barely had a presence, I wasn't even certain it was there at first. But it is, I know that now." Glorfindel's hand hovered above the hilt of his greatsword. "There's no point continuing to hide. We should strike hard and fast."

"Maybe a sprite, then," Harry murmured. "Little physical presence if you don't know what to look for. I should've been more careful."

"There is little any of us could've done," Gandalf reassured. "The Enemy and his lieutenants are often underestimated, since there are songs of warriors like Glorfindel defeating them in single combat. Those songs are nowhere near as glorious as they sound."

"'Tis true," Glorfindel said. "Nazgul are fearsome fighters, and one I would prefer to flee from than fight. Regardless, we must move, or we will be attacked."

Gandalf led the way, surprisingly fast and agile for a man who appeared to be in his seventies. Harry and Glorfindel ran right behind him, the latter making little sound as he did even over dead leaves and branches, and Fleur stayed in the rear. She asked Harry, over the soul-bond, if she was permitted to use magic now. He tentatively agreed, and Fleur began pulsing magic again, behind her, to detect anything out of the ordinary without having to turn her head.

There was a lot of things out of the ordinary. But they were not attacking, merely observing. She ignored them for now.

"Jesus!" Harry cursed, as a large orc lumbered into view; Glorfindel rushed forward and quickly beheaded it. It didn't fall, instead swinging its own crude weapon at the elf. Glorfindel only survived thanks to his honed instincts; he also cursed, in some elfin dialect, as he jumped back. Gandalf struck it with his staff; the orc was blasted backwards, hard enough that its bones were probably all shattered.

"It might still be functional. Be careful," Gandalf warned, as they rushed past. It was indeed functional, but it was sluggish, and the puppeteered orc corpse was left in the dust. They jumped over snaking tree roots and ducked under unnaturally sharp branches, charging in the direction of the forest.

"Fucking hell," Harry muttered. "Enemies incoming, Glorfindel's direction. I'm gonna do what Gandalf did on a bigger scale - Glorfindel, duck."

The elf ducked as Harry brandished his staff to his right and a massive kinetic pulse roared through the forest; the smaller trees snapped at their trunks from the sheer weight of force. As the trees flattened, Fleur saw a host of corpses charging in their direction, wielding too-large axes and hammers. Since they were dead and had no fear of self-sustained injury, they had apparently decided to carry too-large weapons that could probably hurt her even through her armor. Thankfully, they were blown off of their feet, though they didn't take long to recover.

She swallowed.

Gandalf raised his staff and the crystal embedded in the tip glowed like a second sun; the shadows retreated, flinching, but to the rest of the party, it was welcoming. It rejuvenated her, made her feel more awake, as she followed her friends into a clearing that once probably housed the Elves' infrastructure. She stopped before she ran into Harry's back.

"Bloody hell," Harry breathed.

The entire clearing was covered in walls, skeletal trees substituting dark stone occasionally. Buildings were occasionally littered around the area, but the majority of the place were simply walls. And rather tall ones; at least tall enough that she was uncertain if Glorfindel could jump over them. It was a labyrinth. She recalled that stupid hedge maze she'd seen during the Septawizard Showdown, and a sensation of mild amusement coming from Harry told her that he had apparently thought the same.

"We don't have time for this," Harry said, rolling his neck, his vertebrae popping. "I'm gonna blast down those walls. Make sure I don't get gutted in the process."

Fleur erected a powerful ward around them, as Harry took a deep breath and thrust his staff like a fencer with his rapier. Fleur winced as the area lit up with a flash like lightning, and her ears were tortured by what sounded like a crack of thunder. The pain was amplified by the raw power that Harry was exhibiting; stronger than any magic he'd performed in recent memory. She opened her eyes, blinking away the light, and found that several walls had crumbled under his power. Harry was scowling.

"Either I'm weaker than I thought, or the walls are made of a single slab of solid steel," he growled. "Looks like we're taking the maze."

Fleur looked. Only three layers had been penetrated; technically the fourth had been as well, but the resulting crack was too small for any of them to fit through in their current state. Gandalf let out a string of curses that would surely prevent him from accessing the Forbidden Lands at the end of his lifetime. Glorfindel glanced at Harry.

"Can't you turn into a bird again?" He asked.

"Can't use magic too well in that state. Also, look up." Fleur followed Glorfindel's eyes upwards, and a chill ran down her spine. Fell-beasts. Black, leathery, and radiating a stench not unlike that of the corpses.

"You turned into a dragon, before," Glorfindel argued.

"And if Fleur or I get stabbed by one of the riders?" Glorfindel fell silent. "At least within the maze the fell-beasts can't attack effectively. The Nazgul will have to dismount and chase us on foot if they want us."

"Enough chatter," Gandalf snapped. "Let's run."

They did.

They leaped across the three ruined layers and then immediately turned right, under Gandalf's guidance; there was no room for hesitation. Thankfully, this was the right choice, and as they made more turns, Fleur began to see Gandalf's strategy. He was aiming for the various buildings dotted across the area, zig-zagging between buildings and getting ever closer to the fortress itself. Unfortunately, the buildings themselves doubled as barracks - or perhaps catacombs, were more accurate in this case. Zombies shambled out of the reinforced doors, carrying a mishmash of weapons and ineffective armor - not that they needed it, much.

Fleur flinched violently, losing her footing as one of the fell-beasts swooped overhead and the Nazgul rider _screamed_. Every bad encounter with dementors rose to the forefront of her mind; the dementors were bad, and the Nazgul were definitely on par with them, if not worse. Harry paused, then sprinted back to her to pick her up in his arms. Hopeless romantic, Fleur thought, but she still shivered violently.

"I'm fine," she said quickly. "We need your magic. How far ahead are the…?"

"Not that far, I can follow their trail," Harry reassured, quickly putting Fleur down. They ran. "I don't think I've ever felt more like prey since that time we were trapped in the Mirror Realm."

"Agreed," Fleur said, shivering at the mention of the accursed place. Harry had destroyed it with fire. Lots and lots of fire, in fact.

"Heads up!" Harry shouted, and Fleur ducked; Harry's staff glowed bright with power and the light shot at a swooping fell-beast. The creature screamed in pain as Harry's rocket struck at its hind, exploding violently enough that its rider was dislodged and it was set on fire. No traditional fire, either - it burned white like a magnesium flame, and just as bright.

"Harry!" Glorfindel's voice. "Get over here!"

"On my way!" Harry yelled back. "Follow me."

He leaped upwards, transforming into a raven at the blink of an eye; Fleur followed his example, morphing into a hawk. They skimmed over several walls before coming across the sight of Gandalf holding off twelve - no, thirteen - corpse-soldiers, Glorfindel's famed swordsmanship pitifully ineffective against them. Harry returned to a human form, rolled upon landing, coming up with his staff in his right hand and an elven sword in the other. A focused beam of fire, not unlike a laser, burst from his staff, piercing through three corpses and setting them alight from within. Those ones quickly dropped.

"Burn them, or freeze them in place," Harry advised Gandalf who nodded in thanks. Fleur put up wards in front of the two fighters as they methodically removed the corpses from their path. Once it was clear - save for a block of ice with three zombies inside - they charged forward once more. They came to a long stretch directly facing the fortress. They were close.

"I'm going to blow down those last few walls," Harry said quickly. "No sense wasting time here when we're so close. Cover your ears, yeah?"

Nods of assent from the rest of the group, and Harry's staff glowed. He hurled the light at the wall at the end of the passage. The light blossomed fiercely, and a superheated wind blew over them even at this distance. Fleur cast a thermic ward to keep them from being roasted alive, even as a brilliant white light glowed directly in front of them. Gandalf stared in amazement, while Glorfindel was shielding his eyes.

"Oh, fuck me."

Harry uttered those words as the smoke cleared. The walls were somewhat damaged, but not broken, thanks to two Ringwraiths standing in front of it. One of them, judging by the crown, was obviously the Witch-King of Angmar. Considering how Glorfindel flinched at the sight of one but not the other, Fleur's guess was correct.

"I suppose you gentlemen wouldn't just consider surrendering?" Harry asked cautiously, removing his wand from his staff and dispelling the latter back into the Wardrobe.

The Ringwraiths simply raised their swords and began moving forward. In the tight corridors of the maze, there was no possibility of simply pushing past them. Harry sheathed his sword, and his unarmed left hand came up with a shimmering golden shield, and he crouched into a dueling stance.

"Glorfindel, with me," Harry said. "Gandalf, Fleur, two of you take a different route, try to find another way to the fortress. Remove any obstacles you see. If you meet the Enemy, run like hell."

Fleur nodded quickly, and she turned back the way she came. Gandalf, the old coot, was already in front of her. Shockingly fast, that man. She followed hot on his heels and spared one glance back; the duel had already begun, with Harry facing off against the Witch-King and Glorfindel against the lesser Ringwraith. She could feel the violent pulses of magic, one of them the fierce and comforting flame that was Harry, and the other a damp and crawling presence that was definitely the Witch-King.

She'd definitely underestimated the leader of the Nine. While not as strong as Harry, it definitely had a few tricks up its sleeve, and Harry was no longer feeling carefree and joking as he often did in the face of weaker enemies.

Gandalf rounded the corner, going in the other direction to the one they came from. Fleur followed. Gandalf created a powerful gust of wind to push back two zombies coming their way; this gave them enough time to leap out of their grasp into a different route. Fleur wondered if they'd encounter another Ringwraith, considering Harry had blown one off its mount earlier. She pulsed her magic outwards; she immediately pinged Harry and the Witch-King, their presences almost overshadowing Glorfindel and the second Nazgul. The final Nazgul was located far from here, and its emotions were in turmoil; pain under a layer of rage and hatred. The sheer unholiness of the presence almost made Fleur faint, but it was good to know that it wasn't an immediate threat.

"Three more zombies, on the second left," Fleur told Gandalf. Gandalf understood what 'zombies' were in the context, and he was prepared to scorch them to, well, _proper_ death once they came into view. Fleur dodged the flaming, flailing corpses and followed Gandalf out of the maze. Fucking finally.

"Which way?" Gandalf asked. Damn it, Fleur wasn't paying attention - spending so long without a decent opponent to fight had eroded her sense of strategy and probably self-preservation, too. She pulsed her magic again. "Go left. The fortress is symmetrical, and there are fewer enemies that way. Also, our movements are constantly being watched. Expect hard encounters."

She was also relieved to notice that Glorfindel had disabled his opponent and now the two of them were gaining an advantage over the Witch-King. Hopefully their victory wouldn't drive the Witch-King back towards the fortress and trapping Fleur and Gandalf in the process. Fleur stumbled as she struggled to dodge a skeletal hand that had burst from the rotting floor tiles. What the hell was this place? A Dark Lord's fortress or an Indiana Jones adventure?

"Are you alright?" Gandalf asked, noticing her struggle.

"Fine," Fleur grunted. "Stronger enemies up ahead. Remember Harry's categories of necromancy? Type two enemies incoming."

"Tortured souls," confirmed Gandalf, charging up the stairs, staff in a two-handed grip.

They leaped over the last flight of stairs to burst into a large, circular room; it was empty. Fleur stumbled to a stop behind him, glancing around. Dark, spiky pillars, twelve suits of armor standing on pedestals, the armor itself designed like Crusaders but significantly larger - eight feet tall - with spiked gauntlets and pauldrons. A single door to their left. Large, ten feet high, and closed. They'd wandered right into a trap. Great. Fleur had been expecting mobs, maybe, in a somewhat disadvantageous room; she had not been counting on a trap room.

"Fuck!" Fleur shouted, just as the twelve suits of armor crashed down from their pedestals onto the stone floor. Gandalf and Fleur immediately stood back-to-back, warding each other, holding their weapons out in front of them. This was not good; not good at all. Unfeeling corpses could have their bones pulverized; it would be significantly more difficult to do so with literal suits of armor. Controlled by the aforementioned souls, it seemed. Sentient warriors that were even more difficult to hurt than literal zombies.

Gandalf slammed his staff on the ground; Fleur ground her teeth and weathered the blow, which rippled the stone floor like the surface of the pond, by leaning on Gandalf. The heavy, unbalanced suits of armor stumbled; Fleur unleashed a blast of cold, aiming at the three suits on her right side. She poured more magic into it, feeling the beginning of magical strain, and the ice grew faster, creeping up the suits' legs and freezing their torsos. They swung their morningstars at themselves with no hesitation; the ice shattered and the tore their legs from their spots. Ice was useless, then. Just as useless as flame, most likely - magic could produce quite a lot of heat, but it was difficult to melt steel maces as they flew at one's head.

Fleur dodged under a swing of a mace; strong, but slow. Made them slightly more manageable. She pushed her will into a concussive spell, aiming carefully at the knee joint; the suit of armor was blasted back, hard enough to chip the stone wall, and like she'd thought, strong enough to mangle one knee and keep it off its feet for the foreseeable future. She turned to the next, and she quickly dodged the second mace; one of the spikes brushed against her plate armor, creating a godawful screeching noise. She ignored it and swung her staff - none of that fancy twirling bullshit, no time for that - into its knee. Like the one before it, its leg was torn apart.

Gandalf caught on to what she was doing and began copying the process. After a minute, they'd taken down five suits; four missing a leg or both legs, one missing an upper body after Gandalf struck it especially enthusiastically. Seven more suits; still difficult, with a possibility of death (well, resurrection in Gandalf's case, and Fleur might escape as a ghost as long as Harry remained alive) but much better odds than before. Fleur grunted as a morningstar struck her hastily conjured shield; the force behind it was inhuman. Perhaps, then again, that was the point. Fleur returned the blow ten times harder and with a ribbon on top, sending yet another suit of armor out of commission.

She heard Gandalf grunt in pain. That was not good. Dragonhide was tough, but the same could be said of silk; it stopped cutting damage, not blunt damage. With all the force behind those maces, even the magical reinforcement could do so much. Fleur triple-layered a powerful domed shield into existence around the two of them, then jabbed her staff at Gandalf, casting a silent _Episkey_. She winced as she heard Gandalf's bones reknitting themselves, probably not a pleasant experience to go through.

"My thanks," Gandalf gasped, as the second layer of the shield shattered like glass.

As soon as the final layer fell, Fleur struck out with a wave of concussive power, blowing the enemy back several steps; she gripped her staff in two hands and swung it like a baseball bat, channeling and amplifying her magical power through the focus. The point of contact with the suit of armor was the shoulder; the force shattered the entire arm, as well as sending wide cracks through the chestplate. It fell, no longer balanced nor able to support the weight of its weapon. She quickly spun, gathering a little less magical power than before (but no less lethal) at the tip of her staff, sending it crashing into the next one. Gandalf got one more. Odds were three-on-two.

It was Gandalf who saved her this time; she was blindsided by one suit of armor shoulder-charging her as the other swung, leading to her stumbling and falling on the floor. Gandalf made the floor ripple again, sending the enemy off-balance, and helped pull her up. Fleur grunted her thanks, before gathering more magical energy; the next strike was a mixture of a bludgeoning spell and a cutting spell, the effect similar to being cleaved with a battleaxe. Thankfully, it was strong enough that, upon striking her staff upon the helm of one suit of armor, it was bisected all the way down to the navel - enough to send it to time out.

"When will Harry and Glorfindel come?" Gandalf panted as he and Fleur took on the last of the suits of armor.

Fleur sent out a wave again. "Soon," she promised, sensing their presences practically flying towards the fortress, homing in on their position. The third Nazgul, the one Harry had struck down, seemed to by laying in smoking ruins where Harry had passed; that was likely why they were delayed. The Witch-King was furious, but apparently its vessel had been destroyed and likely would not be able to interfere unless Sauron revived it. Which Sauron totally could, since he was in this very fortress.

Fuck.

Gandalf managed to destroy his opponent and Fleur's, with Gandalf's help, followed soonafter. They took a moment to recover their breaths; Fleur dropped to the floor, folding her knees underneath herself. Fuck, she was tired. She hadn't fought at full-power, so to speak, but it wasn't as if she could, considering they were indoors and Gandalf would not be able to escape the blast. But it had been a fairly long struggle and a draining one at that; she'd used maybe a quarter of her magical reserves, and physically she was even more tired. Meanwhile, Gandalf was burning even more magic to make sure the souls didn't return and harm them in other ways.

Fleur sent another pulse; thankfully, Harry and Glorfindel were now in range. Now that she looked more carefully, Glorfindel and Harry were diminished, especially the former. Injured, perhaps? After another minute, Harry and Glorfindel burst into the room, and she got a good look. Harry looked a little charred and frazzled, but was not weakened beyond the significant use of magic during the fight against the Witch-King, and the other Nazgul on the way here. Glorfindel, however, looked deathly pale and Fleur's eyes widened as she saw the wound on his arm.

"Lord Glorfindel!" Gandalf quickly approached. "You're injured. From a Nazgul-blade, no less."

Glorfindel gave a grim smile. "I shall worry about it once we drive the Dark Lord from this cursed place."

"I don't have any healing supplies," Harry said. "I reversed the physical damage and stopped the spread of the venom as best I could, but I haven't been able to eliminate it. Because of that, the wound will likely reopen in about thirty minutes, and we'll be back to square one. Let's decide on a course of action soon-ish, or we could be in serious trouble."

"Let us return to Lothlorien," Gandalf spoke, at the same time, Glorfindel said through ground teeth, "let us continue." They glared at each other.

"I am the least useful fighter on this team, against the Enemy," Glorfindel argued. "The three of you, who are the only ones who can likely put up a fight against him, are still combat-ready. Let us continue - if we retreat now, the Enemy will reinforce this hill, entrench himself deeper. We will not have another chance."

Gandalf looked troubled, but he nodded. "Very well," he said, looking at the two warlocks in turn. "And the two of you?"

"I can keep going," Harry nodded. Fleur hesitated for a moment before nodding as well.

"Mayhaps you can stay here with Lord Glorfindel, Lady Fleur?" Gandalf asked.

"If they're left alone, they'll be vulnerable to reinforcements," Harry said. "They'll come with us, at least close enough that we can aid them in escaping if we need to do that."

Gandalf nodded, before turning towards the tall doors. He pushed them open with magic-amplified strength; they slowly shifted, utterly silent. More stairs. Harry muttered something unkind about dark towers under his breath, before following the Istar upwards. Fleur and Glorfindel followed. Fleur turned to the elf.

"How bad is it?" She asked softly.

"Not… as bad as it could be," he said with a slight smile. "I fought a Balrog once, remember?"

"You also died, remember?" Fleur asked dryly, and he chuckled.

"What about you, my lady?" He asked. "Are you still capable of fighting?"

"Definitely," Fleur said. "My magic is still strong. My body is rather tired, though."

"Ah, the black knights," Glorfindel acknowledged. "I'm pleased you are unhurt, my lady."

"Thank you, Glorfindel," Fleur said sincerely. "I'm pleased too. Oh, look, there's the boss chamber."

"Boss chamber?"

"Back where we come from, there were a lot of stories based around teams of four adventurers going into dungeons or castles and of course, the boss resides in the lowest level or the highest level," Fleur grinned. Then the grin faded away as she approached Harry and Gandalf, to be struck with terror of the highest kind; she didn't realize she was falling until Harry caught her. It took her a minute to stop hyperventilating.

"Mental shields," he advised, and Fleur raised them; in her exhaustion from the previous fight, they'd apparently been lowered. Idiot, Fleur! She needed to focus. _Merde_ , it had been too long since a proper fight, she'd forgotten all the things that might let her survive. The pressure eased a little as she raised the appropriate shields, but the terror aura was powerful enough that it still bled into her mind, casting doubt on her thoughts.

"Ready?" Gandalf asked gravely, and the party nodded. He pushed open the doors.

They were in a throne room. A single throne made of an obsidian-like throne sat on the far end; a shadow, too dark and dense to be a mere shade, sat on it. On either side of the room were corpses, often of elves; Fleur felt a quickly growing sensation of dread as they, as one, turned their unblinking, lifeless eyes to them. Harry pursed his lips as Gandalf clutched tightly at his staff. Glorfindel saw the corpses of his people and released a guttural snarl, one Fleur had never imagined hearing from the graceful elf.

"Sauron," Gandalf spat, disgusted.

Sauron could not speak, but the sensation of amusement radiating from his being was clear enough. The smug shit - the elves, as one, drew their blades with their elfin grace and began to surround the four of them. Fleur noticed that the doors had been sealed shut. She bared her teeth; she could feel her pale hair broadening into long, metallic feathers, and her fingers curling into claws. She felt the power rising up inside her like a bonfire; she received a mostly concealed feeling of mild surprise from the Dark Lord, before he returned to his metaphorical poker face.

The horde attacked.

Glorfindel hung back at the rear, barely useful against his own kinsmen while injured, especially those that did not fear pain or death. Gandalf sent massive tongues of flame at the enemy, and Fleur roared, somewhat self-aware of her demonic voice and feathered arms, as she slashed with talons made of flame. Harry had summoned his war-staff again; he twisted and twirled his weapon, simultaneously shielding himself and sending great flashes of white flame. He alone struck down more of the corpses than Fleur, in her enhanced state, and Gandalf could, combined. Moments like these allowed Fleur to appreciate that her husband was as powerful as he was.

"Always hiding behind your little puppets, aren't you?" Harry taunted. Fleur could see how unnecessarily dangerous that was, but having been consumed by her fire and rage, she merely grinned to reveal a row of needle-like teeth, eyes blazing. "Even now - having hidden behind an alias because you're too terrified to fight. Too _weak_. Isn't that right, Sauron?"

The Necromancer had not moved the entire time, remaining seated on his throne. As Gandalf cried out with pain, Harry swept his staff horizontally; a powerful flash of white light, and several elves in the front fell, sliced cleanly in half along the stomach. To this day, it seemed _Sectumsempra_ was one of Harry's favorite spells, especially after becoming friends with the dour Severus Snape on his second timeline. Fleur took advantage of the momentary respite to charge into the fray, her flames whirling around her like a violent halo, and she began to tear apart limbs from bodies.

Soon enough, the host of dead elves were well and truly dead. Fleur took two long steps back to Harry's side; lost in her battle-lust, she'd forgotten how close to the Necromancer she'd been. The thing had not moved an inch. She glanced to Gandalf, not wanting to look at the quiet shadow. Gandalf was clutching at a wound in his stomach, the worst of it healed by Harry while she wasn't looking. His face was pale, lips drawn taut into a grim expression.

"You're not an illusion, I can tell," Harry said, speaking to the shade. "You're the real Sauron, trapped in here with the four of us. Are you trying to buy time with your mysterious act? Are you really as powerful as you seem?" He raised a palm, full of flickering violet flame. "What if I set you on fire as you are? Would that do anything?"

The Necromancer slowly stood. Fleur blinked; it was difficult to tell due to the lack of features on the body whether he was moving or not. However, as he stood, he drew up to an impressive height, towering over even Glorfindel. Then, she was struck by a wave of terror so powerful she was driven to her knees.

Fleur was fairly certain she was screaming, but couldn't tell with the sensation of _PAIN_ in her mind; the tower shook underneath her hands and knees, and her flames, her rage, were snuffed out, replaced with overwhelming terror, replaced with memories of everything she'd feared then multiplied with each other and amplified hundredfold. Her mental shields crumbled under the onslaught and she was about to kill herself to escape the pain before it suddenly stopped. Like a light being turned on. Just like that.

She still felt dizzy, but she could make out Harry, bewildered and shocked but still standing on his two feet, bracing against the wave of terror. Gandalf and Glorfindel lay beside her, dazed. Harry roared and blasted at the wall; a section of the room, reinforced or not, was blown apart under Harry's turbulent magic. It led to the dark sky, full of shadow and the occasional fell-beast. Reinforcements.

"Fleur," Harry said quickly. "You are going out with Glorfindel and Gandalf. Fly back to Lothlorien and don't stop until you do."

Fleur scrambled to her feet and began dragging Glorfindel and Gandalf to their feet; both thankfully were inherently magical in nature, accompanied by mental shields, and were not as badly affected by the terror aura as most would be. They managed to stumble over to the hole in the wall, whereupon Fleur took one last glance.

"And you." Harry turned back to Sauron as his full war-gear - plate armor made from carved basilisk scales reinforced with runes written in gold thread, on top of the dragonhide armor - flashed into existence onto his body. "I've changed my mind. No more playing around with you. I'm gonna kill you, right here, right now."

Fleur leaped off the tower in time; a great storm of flame burst from the hole like steam from a kettle on boil. Her body morphed into one of a great hawk, as large as any of the great eagles, and she dived underneath Gandalf and Glorfindel. She could feel the two of them grip at the feathers on her back. She dived and swooped as best she could without dislodging her passengers to avoid the fell-beasts; Gandalf's magic helped a little in that regard, the bright light repelling the creatures of darkness. As she flew, she was made dizzy several times by the raw magic pouring from the now half-destroyed tower, as Harry and Sauron did battle for their lives. This… this was approaching unknown territory. Fleur knew that at that moment, Harry was channeling untold power, more magic than he had ever before, against a foe, while weakened, was still greater than anything he'd fought. A battle of titans.

The fell-beasts abandoned their pursuit as she left the southern borders of Mirkwood. It was at around this point that Dol Guldur exploded behind her - a blinding flash, and a massive fireball rolling into the sky, the sight of trees being flattened and incinerated, followed several minutes later by an earsplitting crack and a blast of warmth, even at this distance. An ominous rumble. In the storm of magic that was Dol Guldur, Fleur could not make any contact with Harry. The fact that the soul-bond still existed was no comfort, since it would exist even if his body was destroyed. And there was no way her own scrying could see anything inside - it would be like looking at static.

"By the Valar," Fleur heard Glorfindel say, his voice wavering.

She continued to fly to Lothlorien. She had utmost faith in Harry. He would come back.

* * *

Galadriel froze for a single moment, before she dropped her crystal goblet and it shattered upon the stone tiles. Her handmaidens panicked as she simply fainted; her husband was not faring much better, clutching at his head in agony. The soldiers approached the two of them, intent on finding the culprit, but of course there were none. Or at least, none in Lothlorien. The culprits were miles upon miles away, and were not looking at either of them in particular.

Far north, to beyond the Grey Mountains and well into the Northern Wastes, a tribe of Northern hunter-gatherers cowered in terror as their shaman collapsed, spasming, and began to hallucinate, of two gods fighting with a terrible vengeance. One, an unnamed shadow that cast its gaze wide for something that was stolen from him; the other, the Green-Eyed Raven that had visited this village so long ago, who sought to prevent the shadow from finding it.

In Niflheim, Queen Juliette and her court wizards experienced severe migraines, if not falling unconscious entirely. Further west in Mount Gundabad, a castle and its many-layered magical defenses warped dangerously due to stress; the students of magic inside were thankfully spared. In Mordor and further east, many cowered in terror of their master's unrestrained fury.

Far, far south, in a different continent entirely, Ron and Katie felt it as well. And something else. It had been strong enough to wake a primordial evil, long since gone into hiding. The earth before the two warlocks split, magma bled from the earth, and a monstrous being of colossal proportions rose out of the Earth, wreathed in coronas of dark flame and wings of black shadow - and it raised its sword and whip in the direction of the horrified warlocks, and let loose a hellish roar in challenge.


	11. Chapter 11

Ron was - he was not being too helpful right now.

Katie screamed as the fiery whip snagged her ankle; she could smell burning flesh, and she spun her elf-made sword to try and slice at the thick cord. The Balrog managed to fling her several dozen yards through the air, and she landed painfully on the hot soil, the air being driven from her lungs. She hacked violently at the whip with the sword before she could be thrown away again. It thankfully snapped, leaving her unbound, although her ankle was still smoldering and in utter agony right now. Katie froze her entire left foot in response; the sensation of the ice melting and turning into steam, burning whatever else was exposed of her skin, was painful. She screamed again, her eyes watering, but continued to pour more magic onto the surface of her leg.

She stood up, leaning heavily on her right, as she watched Ron roar, charge, and be swatted away again by the Balrog. But the Balrog was definitely having to exert more effort than before. His curse meant that, the more Ron fought, the less precise his control over his magic was - but usually, that didn't actually stop his magic from acting on its own initiative. And his magic recognized just how great a threat the Balrog was, because it was helping Ron in its own way. Ron was growing larger, stronger as he fought the massive fire demon, and his magic was creating 'scales' made of bone on the surface of his skin, preventing him from being directly burned and also helping him tank the Balrog's strikes.

It wasn't enough.

The demon roared, loudly enough that it made even Ron stumble, and struck with his sword. Ron blocked it with his polearm, and Katie winced as her ears were assaulted by a jarring clash that surely would've broken Ron's arms had they not been reinforced by his magic. Katie slammed her staff into the ground, and closed her eyes, breathing in deeply despite how badly the heat burned her lungs. She reached deep, deeper into the earth, searching for a source of water. It was being burned up even now, by the heat of the magma that the Balrog had brought up during its ascent, but it was there. She leaned on her staff and pulled.

At first, teardrops of water begun pulling from the surface of the planet, shivering and being tugged into the air by Katie's power. As a minute passed, during which Ron bravely took a beatdown from the Balrog to distract it, Katie began drawing deeply, so deep that it began a positive feedback loop and the water began rising up on its own. It was a bizarre sight, not unlike rain falling upward, localized and torrential at the same time. It began to swirl around her, creating a storm, and lightning flashed in her vicinity as her magic crackled with power. The Balrog took notice, and began to take slow, heavy movements in her direction.

A water giant rose up to meet it.

A vaguely humanoid torso, without a lower body, flexed its aquatic muscles and opened its maw to release a roar that sounded like thunder, audible even over the roaring of the swirling water, the howling wind. Katie ground her teeth, clenching all the muscles in her body to keep pumping oxygen into her brain, keep herself from fainting. Her water giant began to freeze, turning into a statue of cursed ice, the lesser-known counterpart of fiendfyre.

The Balrog struck and, to her relief, her golem held.

At the same time, Katie felt like someone had driven a railway spike into her brain; she gasped, too breathless to even scream, and hung onto her staff for dear life. The golem's shattered arm dissolved and reformed; it struck at the fire demon with its other hand, crashing into the Balrog's jaw with a destructive uppercut. If the Balrog had normal physiology, that single strike would have snapped its neck, but it was a construct of fire and shadow; it looked back down at the marginally smaller water golem and roared.

The cord of the flaming whip wrapped around the golem's wrist, and the Balrog heaved, sending the golem off-balance, and the Balrog cut down with its sword on the outstretched arm. It bit deep, almost going the entire way through. The golem attempted to use its undamaged hand to catch the Balrog's sword, perhaps twist it out of its grasp - bad idea. The fingers vaporized almost instantly, and Katie was left pummeling at the demon with its now fingerless hand, trying to hurt it. It was hurting, Katie could tell - but nowhere near what she would have wanted it to be. The Balrog hacked at the arm again, and the golem's arm burned through, leaving it to drop on the volcanic earth.

The Balrog swung its whip, with a large chunk of ice attached to the end, like a sling, and smashed it into the body of the golem. Katie smiled grimly as the ice was simply reabsorbed into the construct; the Balrog faltered a little in mild surprise as the regained ice was transferred entirely into the right arm of the golem, resulting in a bloated, heavily reinforced arm. The Balrog could not dodge the right hook that came at it; it struck true, hard enough that the demon was thrown several dozen feet, flying through the air for a brief moment. The ice monster opened its maw again, and _roared_.

A tightly condensed hurricane, a beam of hail and wind packed into a diameter of about a single foot, burst from the golem's mouth and drilled into the recovering Balrog. The Balrog's roar of pain was music to Katie's ears; though the golem became smaller with every second the beam attack continued, she didn't let up, letting the demon suffer. The Balrog raised its arm in front of its face in a futile attempt to buffer their face from the onslaught.

Of course, the sensation of triumph couldn't last forever - neither could her magic. Her ice golem soon crumbled, no longer having the substance to keep it standing, having used it all up in the attack. The Balrog warily returned to its feet, and snorted in Katie's direction. It seemed assured of its victory. It might as well be. Katie had thrown everything in her arsenal at the beast and it was hurt, but certainly not dead enough to prevent it from killing her.

Ron charged at the Balrog, now ten feet tall, almost half that of the Balrog's height. He had assumed a monstrous form; he'd grown an additional two 'legs' out of nearby gravel and fused it to his lower body, taking the shape of some sort of cross between a troll and a centaur. His arms had been reinforced with muscle fibers thick as suspension cables, and his armored knuckles struck the Balrog with immense physical power. This merely inconvenienced the Balrog, which was mostly immune to physical damage. Ron howled as the Balrog released a burst of superheated air from the surface of its skin, or whatever constituted it.

Katie limped forward, the pain of her ruined leg fresh in her mind with each step she took. She thrust her staff at the beast, sending out lances of light, striking the Balrog at its knees; it roared in pain and annoyance, and stumbled slightly at the damage. Katie was nearing the end of her power, though. She and Ron had been fighting for… what, almost half an hour, now? She was ancient, but she wasn't powerful, not really. Things that Harry could shrug off with ease were capable of killing her, and opponents that even Fleur could defeat easily were a challenge.

Ron's beast form attacked wildly at the Balrog, growing ever larger. The Balrog was being pushed back. Was it possible for them to win, still? She knew that Ron's magic must be reaching the bottom of its reserves, as well, but perhaps they could overwhelm the creature in one last push? She ground her teeth, ignoring the rhythmic pounding inside her head as if someone were taking a sledgehammer to it; she began pooling her magic, almost everything she had, squeezing in just enough that she wouldn't burn out permanently.

"Ron!" Katie screamed.

Ron glanced in her direction; he saw the blinding light that had accumulated at the tip of her staff, and ducked. Katie hurled the light like a javelin at the beast. Fast as lightning and just as loud, the light pierced straight through the heart of the Balrog. It roaed in indignance, pain, and possibly a hint of fear; it stumbled back, hurt, and Katie crowed triumphantly.

Then it swung its massive sword, bisecting Ron from the head down.

A final fuck-you to the warlocks, then. As the beast toppled, Katie watched Ron fall to the ground, slowly as if the world was underwater. The pain of her leg was distant as Katie forced herself forward, reaching towards him. The one she'd spent almost four thousand years with, and never once felt unsatisfied. Her husband, her best friend, her everything.

"Heal!" She screamed. "Wake up, you dumb idiot! You fucking moron! Wake up!"

Magic rolled off of her in waves, pulses, strong enough to shake the earth. Katie screamed, uncaring of anything that might happen, as long as Ron woke up again. As long as he became whole again. The intense pain running through her entire body, as if her blood had become replaced with shards of glass, didn't stop her. Nothing would stop her. She poured everything she had into healing him. No matter what.

After what could possibly be a second, or maybe a hundred years, she felt the last of her energy leave her body, and she closed her eyes.

* * *

**T.A. 2465, January**

Galadriel was in the Void.

Her mind wandered, and her most recent point of interest was Amon Lanc. A name that didn't fit too well, considering there was a crater in place of a hill. In a sense, they'd accomplished what they'd gone there for. Dol Gulder was well and truly destroyed, the last wisps of evil scoured from Mirkwood, burned away in the heat of the mighty duel.

Even an entire season later, Amon Lanc could not be seen in the Void. The magic that still lingered there was great enough that it distorted her senses should she approach; the first time she'd tried, she'd ended up with a psychic nosebleed and had to be dragged out of her trance by Lord Celeborn. Since then, she'd taken to observe the area from a distance.

Another reason she could not approach the area in the Void - the ripples their battle created had been large enough that it attracted the attention of certain Ancient Things that lingered in the non-physical realms, and the Void That Lay Between. Galadriel was powerful, a great sorceress who was one of the few who could match Sauron in strength and skill - and she would not survive an encounter with those Things. Even the Valar, even the Corruptor himself, must be wary when he enters the Realms and the Void, for beings as powerful as he could still be swallowed by beasts larger than planets and with a neverending pit of hunger. Eru was one such being that had come from the Realms Beyond, and Eru had been powerful enough to create the world in which Galadriel resided through _song_.

She wondered how Harry was faring in the Void.

To the best of her understanding, the warlock had abandoned his physical vessel, the body, to escape into the Void before he could be utterly destroyed in the fight against the Dark Lord. Sauron had apparently had much the same idea. Due to the nature of the Things in the Void, the two of them had reached an agreement that, if they were to continue their fight within the Void, it would attract something much, much older and greater than they and the two of them would be destroyed. They had retreated from each other, for now. Surely, Sauron and Harry were doing the exact same things - hiding themselves away in the void, and crafting themselves new physical vessels for their souls to reside in.

Fleur had, for the two months since she learned of Harry's situation, practically locked herself in one of Galadriel's guest rooms and worked nonstop on Harry's new body. Galadriel herself had had to drag her out to attend meals and even bathe, for servants of Lothlorien feared Fleur's wrath at being interrupted too much to do so. But Galadriel could understand. She would waste no amount of time if she were to retrieve her dear Lord Celeborn or her daughter Celebrian from the kind of situation that Harry was in right now.

But logically, it was better to interrupt Fleur. Her lifestyle was unhealthy, and it would be detrimental to the both of them, much less helpful, if she did not step back and relax every now and then. Thus, Galadriel was approaching Fleur's quarters in what felt to her had become some sort of routine.

She knocked, and stepped inside. Fleur knew that only herself or Lord Celeborn ever entered her quarters, and did not protest. Nor did she acknowledge Galadriel's entrance. Parchment was strewn around the room, in what was once organized piles (now overflowing from their respective positions simply due to how much paper was in the room), and what Fleur had referred to as 'arithmancy tables' could be seen in various spots of the quarters, each showing various results of different calculations.

"I was never any fucking good at Arithmancy," Fleur snarled, her fingers briefly flashing into talons, before she regained her cool. "Even now Harry has to explain a lot of the details to me."

"You'll get there," Galadriel said softly, standing behind the chair in which Fleur sat, and placing her hands upon her shoulders. She squeezed briefly; Celebrian, though she'd never admit it, enjoyed this simple gesture even during her rebellious phases. Galadriel could feel Fleur's taut, exhausted muscles relax slightly under her fingers.

"I just," Fleur's breath hitched. "I can't deal with this. For the first time in my memory, three out of four are incapacitated. Harry's literally a spirit, Ron and Katie are in a fucking coma. And of all of us that could still be well, it's me. The least capable person out of all of us."

"You're not incapable," Galadriel said firmly. "Look at what you have created in the Grey Mountains, with barely any help from your husband, if your drunken rants are any indication."

Fleur snorted, before settling back into melancholy. "I want them back. I don't… I don't feel safe without them."

"You may have known them much longer than you have known me," Galadriel said, squeezing again. "But you must understand that we have still known each other long enough to trade all our secrets, and I will not allow any measure of harm befell you."

Fleur remained silent.

"You are like my daughter, Fleur. You have studied under me, and I have learned things from you, as well. As far as I am concerned, you are part of my family, and I will protect my family with my life."

"You really mean that?" Fleur asked, her voice slightly higher-pitched than normal.

"Truly."

"Thank you, Galadriel."

Galadriel smiled softly, not that Fleur could see it, since she was too busy looking down at her feet. She leaned down and enveloped Fleur into a hug; something she hadn't much opportunity to do since Celebrian left her nest. Fleur's grip on Galadriel's arm was a little tight, but that was alright. She needed this right now more than Galadriel needed to be comfortable.

"You must rest," she chastised. "You are working yourself too hard. If I recall correctly - which I do - you mentioned Harry had raised similar concerns. Go to bed, and sleep. I shall wake you tomorrow at nine."

"Eight," Fleur countered. Galadriel released her, and moved to the front of her, her expression completely neutral except for a single eyebrow raised. Fleur shifted awkwardly under her judging gaze. Oh, good - she had been afraid that she'd lost her maternal instincts.

"Nine," Galadriel repeated, slower than was necessary. "I shall wake you then, and no earlier. Now go to sleep."

Fleur went to sleep, as she was told to do. Galadriel didn't wake her until eleven.

* * *

**T.A 2465, March**

Gandalf knocked.

"Come in," a gruff voice said, and he entered.

Ron was sitting upright in his bed, in the process of leaving a bookmark in something he was reading, and setting it aside. Katherine was in a bed next to his, her eyes closed. She had yet to awake from the confrontation against a Balrog. A Balrog… a demon of the ancient world. It was a miracle that the two of them had even survived, much less won.

"Good to see you awake," Gandalf said, sitting down on one of the chairs. "If only the same could be said of dear Katherine."

Ron grunted. "Good to see you awake, too. Heard the battle on your end was intense."

"Truly. If Harry had not been there…"

"I would complain to that prick that he basically got me killed for a few minutes," Ron said. "But then it turns out he fought some hard enough that he tore his body apart at the molecular level. I'm not sure I can blame him for wanting to kill someone who could do that to you."

"Hm," Gandalf said, pulling out his pipe. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"How have you not gotten cancer yet?" Ron asked, but nonetheless he flicked his wrist in the direction of the window, opening it.

Gandalf, not to be outdone, lit his pipe with his finger and puffed contentedly, leaning back into his chair. Ron opened up his book again - no, it wasn't a book, it was a sheaf of papers, now that Gandalf looked closely. From what he could see, it was covered in diagrams and complex calculations. Gandalf found himself leaning in, curious, and Ron adjusted the papers so it was easier for him to see.

"Arithmancy calculations," Ron said. "I can never get over how neat Fleur's handwriting is. That's what you get for growing up in an upper-class family with tutors specifically for penmanship, I suppose. She's trying to build a new body for Harry, and after what happened, she's not content letting him have a normal, easily destroyed human body again."

Gandalf nodded slowly. He was learned, and he knew many things, but he'd never seen much use for complicated numbers; the equations presented to him baffled him. Many lines were crossed out, and the handwriting appeared to become more and more frustrated as they went on. Ron was using green ink to correct any errors that he'd found, or add in his own observations alongside Fleur's. His handwriting was noticeably less orderly than that of Fleur.

"Truth be told, I'm not exactly the best at arithmancy either," Ron admitted. "Katie would be a lot more helpful, and Harry was probably the most naturally talented at mathematics out of all of us. I've come to terms with the fact that I'm nowhere near as intelligent as the other three are - I'm a soldier at heart, not a researcher."

"Still far beyond what I know," Gandalf commented, eyebrows furrowing.

"Advanced mathematics usually isn't present in pre-industrial societies due to a lack of calculating machines, like computers," Ron shrugged. "I wouldn't have expected it of you or anyone else in this world."

"I would still be interested in learning it," Gandalf mused.

"I won't stop you if you are. Hold on, I'm sure there's something in the Wardrobe that will help." Ron's gaze went unfocused for a moment, before he reached into air with his right arm and plucked out a mathematics textbook. It was designed for middle-schoolers, it seemed, with introductions to algebra and trigonometry being the main components. "Here. It'll explain it much better than I ever could."

"Why, thank you," Gandalf said, managing to catch the book in his lap as Ron tossed it. He opened it, and he blinked; neat little rows of perfectly written letters, accompanied by precise diagrams. He couldn't read it, but it was still amazing. How long would one have needed to spend on this book to write it so coherently?

"Wait, let me cast a translation charm on that." Another flick of his wrist, and the writing became legible - to Gandalf's eyes, the letters now flickered between Sindarin and the foreign alphabet.

"How long did they take to write this?" Gandalf asked, amazed. It had… four hundred pages, for Valars' sakes!

"Dunno," Ron shrugged. "But they didn't write it by hand, if that's what you're asking. They used a device called a printing press. Which I'm sure the Wardrobe also has details on."

"A printing press," Gandalf said slowly. It was fairly obvious what this device did; a press, like the seal on a ring pressing into wax, likely copying identical letters onto multiple different sheets of parchment. An interesting concept and, if it became sophisticated enough, greatly increasing the rate of publishing. There were also several historical tomes and scrolls that needed to be re-written, for the originals were rotting - the printing press could greatly decrease the amount of history and knowledge that disappeared over time.

"Yeah, I can tell you're interested. Here." He reached out again and plucked out this time what appeared to be a set of instructions for building and operating such a device. "Those are for your free time, which I know that you have plenty of."

Gandalf scoffed. "I am a busy wizard, Master Ron. I shan't abide by such insults."

Ron snorted. "You're a real comedian, aren't you?"

"This…" Gandalf murmured to himself, skimming through the papers. "This would be very useful, the problem of acquiring parchment besides. Ancient tomes brought back to life, village children learning to read…" He looked up. "Would you permit me to share this with a few of my peers?"

"A few," Ron frowned. "Define, 'a few'."

"Lord Elrond, most naturally. He would be fascinated. And Saruman, the head of my order."

Gandalf did not miss the way Ron's lips thinned ever so slightly at the mention of the last name. "I'd thank you not to cut down the greenery in excessive volumes," he finally said.

"Of course. While a luxury, it likely will not have that great of an impact beyond those who can and wish to read - and those are few," Gandalf reassured.

"Alright, then," Ron shrugged. "Have fun."

There was a silence as Ron returned to staring intently at the papers in front of him. Gandalf sat, uncertain whether he was being dismissed or not. He finally decided to speak.

"What happens from now?"

Ron's eyes flickered to him and back. "What do you mean by that?"

"What will you do?" Gandalf revised his question. "The two of you have fought a Balrog, and returned alive. I assume the two of you will not be returning to the Dark Lands anytime soon. So, what will you do?"

Ron was silent for a long moment, before giving a mirthless chuckle. "Oh, Gandalf, we returned alive; but at what cost?"

Gandalf frowned.

"Katie burned up," Ron explained, taking his silence as permission to continue. "She used up more magic than she was capable of doing, in healing me. I was dead for a couple of minutes, so the fact that I've 'returned alive' is already somewhat questionable. Now, Katie is a squib."

"I'm unfamiliar with that term."

"It's generally agreed in our community to be someone who comes from entirely magical parents, but do not have any noticeable magic of their own," Ron said. "They cannot use spells, use magical potions, or make full use of magical artefacts. That last point is especially important in this case, because the four of us are anchored to a form of immortality through our connection to a magical artefact."

"And all this time I had thought you were much like the elves and the Istar," Gandalf said. "What is your secret, then? The abstinence from pipeweed?" He added sarcastically. Ron smirked.

"I'm not saying anything. A friend you might be, but they are what kept us living for the past two-thousand years or so," Ron said. "I'm not going to just hand this information out to everyone. All you need to know is that it connects directly to our magical pools, drawing ever so slightly from it to keep our bodies in a pristine state. That's also why we heal very quickly even without our intervention."

"And Katie no longer has magic."

"Only as much as the average person. Definitely not enough to fuel the artefact," Ron confirmed. "She will age slowly - but she will age, and eventually, she will die. The Balrog killed her, Gandalf. Just as surely as it killed me - it's just taking very, very long to see the effects of it."

"I see," Gandalf faltered.

"And yes, Fleur, Harry and I have worked out a plan between the three of us. As much as I wish that this had all simply never happened, I will not live without Katie. I'd rather die at her side." Ron smiled darkly. "I offered to transfer my magic to Harry, once he regains a body, using a certain blood ritual of our invention."

Gandalf tried his hardest to give no outward expression at the words, 'blood ritual'. He knew that Ron was watching intently for any reaction that he might give. After all, blood rituals were what Sauron had apparently been performing as the Necromancer, to increase his magical and physical might to what they had been before his downfall in the Second Age. Gandalf knew that this was under different circumstances - the biggest one being a willing participant - but it still made his skin crawl at the thought of it.

"If that is what you truly desire," Gandalf said.

"Not really, but I can't transfer magic to someone that doesn't actually have a magical pool anymore," Ron shrugged. "It would be somewhat like performing the kiss of life on someone who has punctured lungs. It just all flows back out, eventually, and becomes a lose-lose situation."

Gandalf nodded slowly. "How long do you expect to live, then?" He asked bluntly.

"Maybe as much as the average witch or wizard back home, considering the highly magical nature of this world," Ron said, frowning. "Two hundred years? If I live healthy. Which I totally won't, fuck that, I'm dying and I deserve to laze about as much as I want."

Gandalf barked out a startled laugh. "Giving up so easily?"

"I'm not giving up. I'm going to die soon, and it's as certain for me as it is for others. I wonder if I'll be carried to Mandos' Hall, or if I'll go Hell to be judged?" Ron wondered. "I've never really been one for philosophy. I'll suppose I have to join the club, now."

Gandalf smiled, sadly. "Regardless of where you will go, I'm sure you'll be admitted to paradise."

"Oh, no. Certainly not." Ron returned a more bitter, twisted smile in response. "See, Katie was always the kind one. The one that loved teaching and helping wherever she went. I was less caring - well, Harry too, but regardless. Do you know how many people have died as a result of my actions?" Gandalf shook his head. "Tell me, how many people live in Gondor?"

"I don't know the exact figures, obviously," Gandalf frowned.

"Obviously," Ron mocked. Gandalf glared at him and Ron smirked.

"But by the last tax collectors' count, it would total to around four-hundred-thousand."

"Huh. More than I was expecting. Anyway. I used to rule the most powerful nation in the world, as an elected official. I didn't even manipulate the bureaucrats with my magic. I got there through convincing arguments and centuries of speech practice," Ron said, sounding somewhat proud of his achievement. "This country, at the time, had over two-hundred-million people living in it. If I had to guess, I'd say it was about the size of Eriador." He made a so-so gesture with his hand. "The world had around six billion people living in it. As a consequence of my and Harry's actions, all of them burned in nuclear fire."

Gandalf blinked, unable to comprehend the massive numbers.

"Oh. You don't really… get it. Never mind," Ron shrugged. "The point is, if we both die, will I be separated from her?" He gestured to the comatose Katie. "She would undoubtedly go to Paradise, while I will undoubtedly be placed in some sort of punishment realm. Do Heaven and Hell exist? Or will we just be destroyed, become nothingness, turned into fuel for the stars? If it does turn out that I simply disappear with nothing to remember me… is that still better than being separated from her to atone for my sins?"

Gandalf didn't really have anything to say. What could he even say, in response to that?

"Something I've been thinking about, ever since I made my decision to die."

"I understand. It must be hard."

"Not really. I'm going to die regardless. All that's left is a curiosity of where I might end up, is all."

But it was hard, Gandalf could tell. The possibility of being eternally separated from her would hurt him significantly worse than death itself. He could say nothing to try and comfort him - for what would he even say?

"I shall visit you again," Gandalf said, standing up. "Thank you for these, Ron."

He was making to leave the room before Ron cleared his throat, and he looked back. Ron held out a cloth-wrapped bundle to him, and Gandalf approached, curious. He picked it out of Ron's hands, and unwrapped a corner of the cloth to see a flash of steel. Not of dwarven or elven make, but nonetheless crafted by skilled hands.

"I think I'd like to thank you," Ron said. "For being a friend."

"Friends don't need to thank each other," Gandalf argued.

Ron raised an eyebrow. "It's something I rarely use anymore, Gandalf, and I think you'll get more use out of it than I will. An investment, then, in your monster-hunting endeavors."

"I don't usually go monster-hunting, as you put it…"

"Oh, shut up and take it," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "Now get the hell out of my room."

Gandalf chuckled and left the room. Unable to hold in his curiosity until he reached his own chambers, he removed the cloth entirely and found a longsword forged entirely out of silver. Gandalf's practised eyes could see the ribbons of magic weaving in and out of the sword, making it indestructible and incredibly lethal. An incredible boon… and to think that those who were not dwarves or elves could craft such a thing!

He noticed a set of characters engraved into one side of the blade. It was, again, written in foreign characters, but he could understand it, sort of. An ancient enchantment, different to that likely temporary spell Ron had placed on the book.

"Gryffindor," Gandalf murmured.

* * *

**T.A. 2497, June**

Harry dropped his spoon.

"Fuck," he enunciated clearly, then bent over to pick up the spoon.

"Still struggling?" Fleur asked.

Harry shrugged awkwardly. "I guess? I feel like I've got the hang of this, but there are a few slips here and there."

"Do you feel comfortable?" Fleur pressed. "No pains, no aches?"

"I keep telling you I'm fine. It's been two months," Harry said. "It's a decent enough time to be acclimatized to the body. Not as if I need to attend physical therapy, either, since these muscles are strong enough to armwrestle strongmen."

"I'm just worried about you," Fleur said sheepishly.

"I know."

"You spent over forty years as a bodiless soul, Harry. I had almost been afraid that you might even forget how to use a body."

"And let Voldemort one-up me? Like hell," he snorted. "Then again, he did spend most of his time possessing small critters and animals… at least until he decided that the number of cars hitting him was unnatural." He snorted again. "That was more fun that I expected it to be."

Fleur shook her head. "I wish you were more serious when it came to your health."

"What could I even do to prove to you that I am serious?" He threw his hands up in mock exasperation. "I've rested for an entire month, like you told me to, let me get used to the enhanced senses and my self-image and all that stuff, and now I'm practicing making small movements to learn my new motor capabilities. I've done everything you've told me to."

"I know, but…"

"Yes, you're worried. I get it." He stood up, and Fleur let out a small squeak as he grabbed her waist and spun her around. "But I'm fine. I promise. I'm here, and I'm in your grasp again. You don't need to be worried anymore."

Fleur made to protest, but the words died away and she melted into Harry's kiss. So long before she had been able to receive any sort of affection from him. But now he was real again, tangible again, in a new body that she'd created with his, Ron's and Katie's help. A body not unlike a terminator - metal endoskeleton, reinforced with protective runes written in microscopic sizes all over, great volumes of magic constantly flowing to and from the surroundings like a waterfall. Internal organs were operating at more or less peak efficiency, and therefore could be reduced in mass, leaving more space for additional organs, one of which notably produced stem cells that could rapidly be deployed to heal injuries, capable of prioritizing by lethality of the injury thanks to magic.

His body may be artificial, but he was real. After so long… so long.

"Do that again," Fleur breathed, once Harry pulled away. He obliged.

In his new body, he was a little taller than he was before - okay, significantly taller. He was just shy of seven feet tall now, as tall as any of the tallest elves at this point, as tall as Glorfindel, even. The resulting kiss was somewhat awkward, though no less deep and long-lasting. It helped that Harry could hold his breath longer now, too. It was also mildly bizarre seeing Harry's skin without all the scars that he'd accumulated over the years - bizarre, but not unwelcome. Harry expressed some distaste at the fact that he no longer had the scars to prove he was no mere boyband member who spent far too much money on skincare products (his words, not hers) but he did feel rather pleased about the fact that he apparently no longer got sunburn.

The mere power of solar radiation was no match for Fleur's skincare!

"Sorry," he said, genuinely concerned, as Fleur stiffened in his too-hard grip. "Damn. Sorry."

"It's fine," Fleur said.

Fleur would admit that she was simply not equipped to build an entire body from scratch, so she'd enlisted some help. Glorfindel was mystified by the concept of 'DNA' but nonetheless allowed Fleur to remove some from him, with which she'd created a template for Harry's organic bits. The genetic code was near-identical to that of the human, but effectively, the elves' DNA made them nigh-impossible to be sick, as advanced as their immune system was. They had additional gyroscope-like organs at the bases of their skulls that gave them a superior sense of balance, as well as a significantly evolved sense of spatial awareness. Muscle tissue was also somewhat different, with traditional muscle cells being reinforced with some sort of protein wrapped helically around each cell, that tensed quite literally like a spring whenever the muscles did, giving a little bit of extra oomph. Their weightlessness and their immortality was, however, a product of the Valar's magic, and something that Fleur did not have the power to replicate, nor the knowledge.

Still, being as strong as agile was already a significant advantage over that of humans, and one that Harry was exploiting thoroughly in the bedroom.

"You should go spend some time with Galadriel," Harry said, idly twirling Fleur's hair around his finger - she knew that _he_ knew that she hated when he did that, but she suffered for his sake. "You've barely spoken to her since I woke up. Besides, I need Glorfindel to help me hone my combat skills again."

"I suppose I should," Fleur agreed. "Now stay safe, okay? I don't want to see a single scratch on you after your decide that sparring with real swords might be a good idea."

"You're treating me like the Duke of Marlborough's fine china tea set," Harry grumbled. "Go talk to your girlfriend."

"And don't you encourage Glorfindel. He should really know better for someone who's lived as long as he has."

"Maybe I'll get myself impaled just to see you scream at him."

"Don't, or I'll hurt you even worse," Fleur snarled. "I made you, I can destroy you just as easily."

Harry smirked, giving her a two-fingered salute as he headed in the direction of the barracks. Fleur sighed. Infuriating prick… and love of her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my favorite chapter, I'll admit, but one that was probably necessary. Before you ask, yes, I planned Ron and Katie's deaths since the beginning of this story. I think I'm happier with them dying of old age though, rather than being killed by the Balrog itself.


	12. Chapter 12

**T.A. 2477, July**

Daisy was a good girl. Most of the time.

Other times she conveniently became unable to hear her mother or father when they told her to come back onto the path instead of into the undergrowth. This gave her a bit of a reputation as being… well, not _daft_ , not really, but being a little bit of an airhead. Daisy… honestly didn't care. It got her out of important jobs, people didn't expect her to contribute her opinion in conversations, and most of the time, she was left to do whatever she wanted and people just let her be, because 'Daisy will be Daisy.'

Which was why today, nobody was stopping her from entering that big old house in Bywater, the one that Big People were supposed to have been living in. She was only investigating because of rumors that it was haunted; some hobbits passing by the house during nighttime reported hearing laughter, conversation in an unknown tongue, sounds of housework going on. The constabulary was notified, and they attempted to enter the home only to find it locked. Then they'd shrugged and called it a day.

Daisy wanted to be a constable when she grew up. She would be paid for putting in the minimum level of effort possible, at least judging from current trends.

The twenty-year-old shuffled around the edges of the house. It was simple but well-built, the wooden walls without a hint of damage despite having stood for over four hundred years if legend were to be believed. Everything was comically enlarged, having been built for Big People rather than hobbits. The house had a triangular roof covered in overlapping ceramic tiles. It was weird, seeing a 'house' as they called it. Daisy was still mostly trying to get her head around the fact that the majority of Big Folk preferred to build homes above-ground.

The sounds of argument came from within the house, and Daisy paused.

"...Jesus Christ, Ron, for the last time, it won't fit!"

"Yeah, it will. It's close, but not impossible. Just need to push harder."

"Ron, that's not - Jesus fucking Christ, Ron, stop, _stop, STOP_!"

"By Merlin, woman, calm down."

"It's gotten stuck, you daft moron! At this rate we'll have to call for help from the bloody neighbors!"

"It hasn't gotten stuck. That's not how stuck works. If it managed to go in, it can come out."

Daisy was not an airhead as she pretended to be. She just happened to have too few fucks to give about anything. Indeed, her sense of self-preservation was completely eroded even in this case; Daisy forcibly opened a window and clambered in, then walked casually into the room from which she heard the argument.

" _Oh, my sweet virgin eyes!_ " Daisy screamed, covering her eyes as she went, and stopped. She cracked open her fingers to find a fully clothed man and woman trying to shove a sofa through a doorway. They both stared at her. Daisy shrugged unapologetically and stared back.

"Did I leave the door unlocked?" The redheaded man wondered.

"What are you staring at?" Daisy challenged the woman, who sputtered.

"You're the one keeping their unblinking gaze on me," the woman replied.

"Alright, kid," the whiskered giant let go of the couch and approached her. "You've had your fun. Now out you go."

"Hey, you can't kick me out!"

"Sure I can. I'll even demonstrate it for you." The man placed his hand on her head - damn, it was heavy. But joke's on him, _he_ had to lean down to do so. Daisy easily ducked under from his grasp and dived through his legs while he wondered where she'd gone.

"Too easy," Daisy hooted. "I can't believe anyone was scared of you."

"Why would people be scared of us?" the woman asked, confused.

"Thought this place was haunted."

"But… we met the neighbors," she said. "And we gave them a tin of biscuits as a gift."

"Are your neighbors, by any chance, less than three feet tall, have more white hair on their feet than their head, and all wrinkly?" Daisy asked, pulling down the flesh of her cheeks to demonstrate what she meant.

"I… guess?"

"Yeah, those are called 'old people', and they don't get out of the house much," Daisy nodded sagely. "It's very unlikely that anyone has spoken to them, apart from you of course, in the past twenty years. So I wouldn't expect anyone to know about you moving in."

The man and the woman glanced at each other, before diving at her in unison. Daisy shrieked in surprised delight and sprinted up the too-large stairs, stumbling several times but keeping just ahead of the two Big People. She dove into what was clearly the master bedroom, with a gigantic mattress that could probably fit five of her in a line. Ooh, and a walk-in wardrobe! Those made for the best hiding spots!

She ducked inside and blinked. Those… were those robes? Not like houserobes, but actual robes that people stopped wearing several thousand years ago? Rich politicians and cult leaders being the exceptions, obviously. And a pointy hat. Several of them. Like a wizard? Daisy snorted, then immediately realized her mistake as the two Big People heard her and threw open the door to the wardrobe.

Daisy ducked underneath one of the very large hats and did her best impression of a tree.

"Smug little prick," she heard the man grumbling. "I'd have caught her by now if I didn't have to go on all fours to search for the midget."

Daisy huffed internally. She was taller than most of her friends.

"Fawkes? Would you mind looking for the intruder?"

Daisy blinked as the following silence was interrupted by a sound like a crackle of a fireplace and beautiful birdsong that she didn't recognize. It warmed her heart, her body, and cleared her mind. It made her feel happy. That was one beautiful song - and her eyes flickered down. From what she could see of the ground, a gentle orange glow had washed over the floor. Then, a slender neck stuck itself into her field of view.

Daisy swallowed, as the gold-plumed bird stared at her, cocking its head so one beady black eye settled on her figure. Then the bird pecked her foot.

"Ow!" Daisy whipped off the hat and slapped at the bird with it, the bird dancing away gracefully. "That hurt!"

She was immediately picked up by the black-haired woman who held her at arm's length, grimacing. Daisy huffed. The woman was treating her like a soiled diaper or something! That was just plain _rude_. And that smug bird bitch was giving her a triumphant look. The bird noticed her glare, and trilled happily.

"Alright, take it outside," the man said.

The woman sighed. "Can't I just… toss it out of the window or something?"

"Wouldn't that break its legs?"

"...nah, it's small, it doesn't weigh much. It won't land too roughly."

"I detest being referred to as an 'it'," Daisy said, crossing her arms. She wished she had a little more dignity as she said that, though - considering she was being held up under her armpits at arm's length like a baby that was vomiting everywhere, she didn't have much dignity right now.

"You're telling me that you're not a little goblin?" The woman asked, mock-surprised.

"No! I'm not a goblin, I'm a hobbit," Daisy insisted. "Just like you, except without the gigantism."

"Maybe I'll just leave you sitting on the top shelf," the woman muttered darkly.

"Bitch," Daisy muttered.

"I'm putting you in time-out, young lady."

And she was promptly stuck on the tallest shelf.

This sucked. The shelf was the only shelf! It was technically the lowest shelf as much as it was the highest one. There was no way to climb down, and she could only try to drop seven feet to get back down. She swallowed. That was a pretty big drop… the man and the woman stared at her imprisonment with a sick, twisted sense of satisfaction.

"Sadists," Daisy grumbled.

"We're not sadists. We'll make sure to leave a food bowl and water bowl up there for you," the man rumbled.

"I'll pee on the floor," Daisy threatened.

"We'll make you wear nappies," the woman snapped back.

Yeah, Daisy wasn't going to win this one. She grumbled, crossed her arms, and looked away. The man snorted in amusement before going downstairs, presumably to break the sofa or maybe the doorway itself. The woman glared at her. "Behave," she said in a voice commanding enough that Daisy almost considered listening to it. "I will be back soon." Then she left.

Daisy swung her legs off the edge of the shelf. Already bored. She counted the number of creases in the curtains. Then she counted the number of squares in the quilt. She lost track of the number several times so, annoyed Daisy simply counted the number of squares on each edge and multiplied them together. Then she realized she'd used up all her entertainment.

Hm. Maybe if she jumped off from here, she could land on the bed? She rose warily to her feet; the ceiling was too low for her to stand up properly, leaving her in a sort of half-crouch. She only had one shot at this. Land on the bed. Easy peasy. Easy as pie. As cake. As… easy as… stealing Ferdinand's candy. Yes. Very easy. Focus.

She leaped, and fell short.

Daisy's eyes widened, flailing in midair as she realized she was not going to land right - then grunted. The air was knocked from her lungs as she landed on the very _edge_ of the bed, her chest striking the mattress. Her right ankle twisted uncomfortably underneath her and she felt an uncomfortable heat burn the joint in question. She topped backwards onto the carpeted floor and groaned weakly. The sound of someone furiously storming up the stairs had never been more welcome.

"What have you done now, you…!" The woman, the raven-haired one, trailed off as she saw the groaning hobbit child (no dignity) on the floor. The woman just palmed her face, and muttered something under her breath. Daisy was fairly certain it wasn't a compliment.

"Alright, I apologize," the woman said sharply. "I'm sorry I made the decision to put you in time-out by placing you on a shelf, because I never thought you'd be idiotic enough to jump from a place just over twice your height. Considering you broke into our house, I should've guessed. Now, are you injured?"

"Ankle," Daisy whined pitifully.

"Utter idiot," the woman muttered, as she picked Daisy up. Daisy winced. "Ribs as well?"

"Maybe?" Daisy said.

The woman dropped Daisy unceremoniously on the bed, although she took care to avoid hurting her ankle. Daisy landed and released an 'oof' in a rush of air from the shock of it. The woman placed her hands on her hips, and glared at Daisy for a very long time, saying nothing. Daisy fidgeted, unable to look her in the eyes. The lady could be really scary when she wanted to be, it seemed.

"This time, you _will_ heed my order and _stay, here_ ," she spoke clearly and slowly. "Understood?"

Daisy nodded meekly.

"Good. Don't injure yourself further."

Thus, Daisy ended up landing herself in a, this time, inescapable prison created from her own stupidity. The woman returned a few minutes later with a damp towel in her hands. Daisy hissed as the cloth was wrapped gently around her throbbing ankle. The woman scowled at her.

"What's your name?"

"...Daisy."

"Well, Daisy, my name is Katherine. But you may call me Katie." The woman straightened. "Fawkes, do you think you can come help her, even if she is entirely deserving of her injuries?"

Daisy's jaw fell open as, in a flash of flame, the golden bird from before appeared, trilling. Again, that strange sensation of a high, blooming buds of optimism and contentedness, of beauty. The bird glided onto the bed on its sparkling copper-colored wings, its tail streaking after it like that of a shooting star. It landed gently on its clawed feet and made its way towards Daisy on its feet and two wings to keep its balance on the soft blankets.

Daisy reached out slowly with one hand. The bird blinked, then nudged her fingers with its head; Daisy smiled. The bird hopped closer, seemingly examining the injury. It cocked its head, and began blinking. Was… was it crying?

A single teardrop fell from the bird's eyes and onto her ankle; Daisy let out a hiss as the injury burned hot for a very brief moment, before receding into a dull throb and continuing to disappear. Katie lifted the towel and, before her very eyes, the swelling reduced; the pain disappeared; Daisy gaped dumbly at the bird as it trilled again before disappearing in another flash of flame.

"What?" She managed.

"Fawkes is a phoenix. His tears can heal almost any injury," Katie shrugged. "You'd best get back home. The sun is about to go down."

Daisy hesitantly pulled herself off of the edge of the bed and landed on two feet. Neither of them hurt. She stared up at Katie, who was watching her expectantly, her arms crossed. Daisy stared back. Katie jerked her head to the doorway.

"Thanks," Daisy mumbled awkwardly. How the hell were you supposed to talk to someone who had just helped you, despite you being a complete jerk to them?

"You're welcome," she said primly. "Now get out."

Daisy hurried down the stairs and she paused briefly as the red-whiskered giant of a Man was standing in the doorway, clutching a mug of tea in his hand. That was nothing unusual, but his arm, his entire left arm… it had a metallic sheen and, while shaped like an arm made of flesh and bone, clearly wasn't. It was as if it was made entirely of quicksilver, shifting and shimmering like the surface of a pond being blown by wind. Undecipherable runes were etched into the surface of it, like tattoos.

"Looks like you're healed. That's good," he said. "That being said, you're an idiot."

Daisy didn't really have anything to retort. Mostly because she was still staring at the arm.

"Didn't Katie tell you to get out?"

Daisy got out.

* * *

**T.A. 2489, November**

"Sloppy," Ron grunted as the startled deer bounced away.

"So tells me the one who has several thousand years of experience," Daisy grumbled, standing up fully and approaching the tree where her arrow had gotten stuck. Despite being significantly larger than a hobbit, Ron was deceptively silent.

"You're the one that said they wanted to out-shoot elves," Ron said. "You'll need to get much, much better than that. And very fast, too."

"Immortality seems like an unfair advantage when it comes to mastering skills."

"I don't know. Your talent in getting yourself injured seems to significantly outstrip that of any elves I know."

"Says the one that _died_."

Ron growled at her, and Daisy danced out of his reach before he could smack her upside the head. She avoided them wherever she could, because his slaps hurt. Not only was his hand significantly larger than a hobbit's (and large even for a Man), it was also calloused from many years of weapons training and apparently blacksmithing. And that wasn't even his metal hand - Daisy had once seen Ron crush a brick in that hand when Daisy pissed him off while he was building his 'pizza oven'.

She retrieved her arrow with a bit of effort and nocked it onto the bowstring again. The thin layer of snow on the soil left little footprints; Daisy silently followed the tracks of the startled deer. It could've run quite a ways, but with Ron watching her back and both of them carrying a pack full of food and water so, if need be, they could continue the pursuit for several days.

Two hours later, Daisy and Ron came across the deer from before; Daisy recognized the branching of its horns. Daisy glanced at Ron, who nodded at her, and she quietly drew the string back. Her arm wavered slightly - damn the cold - but she held her breath and gave herself three heartbeats before she released.

The arrow struck the deer's front leg; it yelped and tried to limp away, but a second arrow whistled past Daisy's head and embedded itself in the base of the deer's head. The broadhead punched through bone like it was made of paper, and the deer fell to the ground, dead. Daisy released her breath and glanced back at Ron. He stood up, pulling his scarf back up to his nose, and cracked the knuckles of his right arm.

"Nice shot," Daisy commented as she stood up.

"Eh, it was alright. Hunting in the cold is tough, and there's no getting around it unless you're an elf and have never experienced the sensation of your fingers slowly falling off," Ron muttered the last part darkly. "Damn elves."

"Damn elves," Daisy echoed. Ron approached the deer and hoisted it up onto his shoulder. Damn, he was strong. He didn't even have to use his quicksilver arm to do so. He nodded to Daisy.

"Do you want to keep going? Try and find another one?"

"Nah," Daisy said, shivering. "I don't like the cold. And it's not even winter proper yet."

"Fair enough. Let's head back, then."

The two of them began hiking back towards the Shire. After a couple of hours, they reached Buckleberry Ferry, and as Ron had done her the favor of carrying the game, Daisy was the one who rowed to the other shore. It was getting dark by the time that they returned. The hobbits, many of them who were brushing the snow off their porches, glanced at them as they passed by. By now, most of them knew that a couple of Big People lived in the old Bywater house where magicians had supposedly lived.

Well, Daisy knew it for a fact that the legend was true, now, but most didn't.

"Is there a reason you go hunting?" Daisy suddenly wondered. Ron grunted in askance. "As in, the Shire has plenty of farms and ranches. You'll find a lot of cows and the like if you go out towards the more rocky regions that are less suited for crops. So why do you go out of your way to hunt?"

"Keep my skills sharp, I suppose," he said. "Don't really need to hunt, but, well, I need to make sure I can hurt someone with a bow."

"You planning to go to war, or something?"

"Not me, no. Probably not in the rest of my life," he said. "But darkness encroaches upon the world. You'd be surprised how dangerous it is outside the Shire."

Daisy glanced up at him. He didn't seem to be joking, at least. And the man had fought a Balrog - upon research, Daisy discovered just what an accomplishment it was to fight one such thing and survive it. Orcs, goblins, warg-riders. Necromancers in forests and black cloaked riders. Hobbits had gone to war before, five hundred years earlier. That seemed like a long time ago, and it was, but Ron had lived long enough to know that peace could never last forever.

"By the way, we have a guest," Ron said.

Daisy blinked at him. "A guest? Who?"

"You'll see."

Daisy rolled her eyes. There was nothing to be gained from being a secretive asshole. It was probably Gandalf again, anyway. The old coot came here as often to visit Ron and Katie as to stock up on tobacco. She kicked idly at the snow. There wasn't enough snow to make snowballs and hit Ron with, not yet.

"On your best behavior, if you please," Ron said, as they reached the Big House. He dropped the deer carcass off towards the side somewhere. It was cold enough that it probably wouldn't rot or anything. He shook the snow off of his shoulders, wiped the bottom of his boots on the welcome mat, and stepped inside. Daisy followed.

Then she came face to face with an absolutely gorgeous woman.

Now, Katherine wasn't unattractive. Quite the opposite, in fact, in spite of her slightly hawkish nose and somewhat stern visage. She was certainly more handsome than any of the hobbits that Daisy knew, since hobbits on the whole tended to be more rounded (a side effect of being short). But this woman? Her limbs were long, graceful, and her skin the color of ivory. Her hair shone like gold and her blue eyes sparkled.

"Buh," Daisy said.

"Daisy, meet Celebrian," Katie said. "Please don't embarrass us."

"Are you an elf?" Daisy asked.

"I am," Celebrian said, amused. "I trust I'm not intruding, Daisy. It has been some time since I have seen these two - I only rececntly learned they'd taken on another apprentice under their wing."

"Another?" Daisy glanced at Ron, who shrugged.

"Hundreds of years ago," Katie confirmed. "Last I checked, the little sect is doing just fine on the peak of Mount Gundabad. I've chosen not to interfere since they don't seem to be screwing everything up."

"How long ago did you visit them?" Celebrian asked. "For that matter, how long since you have visited anywhere?"

"About one hundred years, to the first question, and ever since we settled here, to the second," Katie replied.

"Ah, good, I had thought you might be avoiding Rivendell but it appears we're getting the same treatment as the rest of your friends," Celebrian said in a teasing tone. "You must come visit again. Lord Elrond is keen on seeing you both, as are Elladan and Elrohir."

Ron grumbled something about lazy elves that Daisy didn't entirely catch. Judging by the way Celebrian's pointy ears twitched and she scowled, she definitely heard. Daisy imagined what it would be like having an elf's hearing. She'd be able to overhear all the juicy gossip! Maybe even voices inside minds?

She desperately cut off that train of thought. Didn't want to test that possibility.

"So," Katie propped her head on her palm, elbows on the edge of the table. "Have you continued practising, Celebrian?"

Celebrian flushed slightly. "Sometimes?"

"You really must keep up with it, you know," Katie urged. "Honestly, I can't understand why you haven't been hurt already. You visit your parents for a month every other year, and you do this alone! No guards! What if something tries to hurt you? I worry for you."

"I know…" Celebrian shifted guiltily.

"You have a husband who fought in one of the biggest wars in history," Katie said with a raised eyebrow. "Surely he'd accommodate you, for your safety if nothing else."

Celebrian looked uncomfortable. "I did ask, once…"

"And?"

"I was unsure how he would feel about it, and I lessened by training hours in fear that he might discover me and question me. I decided to, ah, just 'get a grip', as you say sometimes, and ask if he could train me," Celebrian said. "He didn't understand why I was asking. He told me if I wouldn't rather just have guards instead, if I cared for my safety. After all, it's not as if many women take up fighting…"

Katie's eyes narrowed and Celebrian swallowed. "I suppose I will have to come visit Rivendell soon, after all," she said sweetly. Ron snorted from beside Daisy, amused. Daisy had never met Celebrian's husband, but being called _Lord_ Elrond, he was obviously an important fellow. And watching important folk getting yelled at by Katie was always fun to watch.

"Can I come?" Daisy asked innocently.

"Ask your parents," Ron instantly replied.

"But they'll say no!"

"Then that's their choice. Although I don't think they'll be too worried about you visiting elves, of all people."

"You can't be too harsh on him. Elves are the oldest of the races in Middle-Earth, after all, so it's only they're also the most traditional…"

"Traditional? Don't try to flatter something that's clearly nothing more than outdated," Katie snorted. "I love Middle-Earth, and the people in it, but sometimes I forget this is a pre-industrial society with pre-industrial social stigmas."

"With most mammals, females are generally less physically imposing than their male equivalents," Ron commented. "Meaning that women in combat are, generally speaking, disadvantaged. However you, being an elf, will be almost easily able to overpower any non-elf opponents including Dwarves, Men, Orc, Goblins, and so forth. I feel like self-defense would be a good investment for all elves, not just specifically men or specifically women - especially considering you're all basically immortal until you're killed by something."

"I - yes. You raise good points," Celebrian nodded to herself, cupping her chin in delicate fingers. She looked up. "You know how to fight, yes?"

Katie blinked. "Sort of? Ron knows better than I do. I could teach you hand-to-hand but you're better off asking the big lug if you want training with weapons."

"Better to start with hand-to-hand than with weapons," Ron interjected. "You'll want to improve your instincts before starting to train with weapons. Getting hit by fists hurt less than getting hit by even practise swords."

Katie nodded. "Alright, then. I guess we're starting Katherine Bell's Boot Camp of Hell first thing tomorrow!"

Celebrian sputtered. "I didn't…"

"Too late now, Bri-Bri! You can use my bed, you won't be getting as much rest as you might like once the training starts. Come on!" Katie effortlessly picked up the taller woman and stomped up the stairs. Ron and Daisy watched them go. Daisy glanced at Ron.

"Have I gotten better at fighting?"

"Yeah." Daisy preened. "But not as much as you like to think you have."

"Screw you."

Ron snorted and went into the kitchen to make himself some tea.

* * *

**T.A. 2509, August**

Arwen watched her mother. She was humming to herself as she read a book on her bed, skillfully using her single hand.

She, her father, and her brothers had ridden as hard as they could to Lothlorien, where their mother was now. Seeing her, so pale and close to death, had been an experience neither of them were likely to forget. Lord Elrond had not removed himself from her side for three whole weeks, doing nothing but tending to her, sparsely eating.

Yesterday, Celebrian had awakened, her eyes snapping open and almost entirely coherent from the moment of her awakening. It had been a week since, but their mother simply seemed… angry. There was no other way to describe it. She treated her own family with kindness, naturally, save for a few brief arguments with Lord Elrond, graced them with smiles and reassurances of her health, but when nobody was looking at her, speaking to her, her pale blue eyes were cold and harsh like chips of ice. Her lips were thinned and pale. She seemed to be smoldering with leftover rage. Considering what she had been put through, Arwen could understand somewhat.

Celebrian had survived against all odds, and nobody could claim less.

She had been carrying twin swords and several throwing knives in the event that she might be stopped by a few bandits on the road. She wore a mail shirt underneath her jacket, but nothing else. She was equipped to deal with a few distasteful folk who might have tried robbing her of her valuables. She most certainly was not equipped to deal with a forty-strong company of warg-riders, on foot, and carrying no ranged weapons.

Lord Elrond, Elladan and Elrohir, and even Arwen herself could not get much information out of her. However, when Elladan and Elrohir had gone to her aid after a small nightingale whispered in Lord Elrond's ear, the twins found a trail of destruction leading to the entrance of a small cave, dozens of Orc and animal corpses littering the entrance, with their mother bleeding out to death in the far end. Everything below her left elbow had been turned into something unrecognizable, the teeth marks on her upper tricep suggesting she might have been used as a warg's chew-toy; she had twice as many broken ribs as those intact, and only her chainmail might have prevented her heart from being pierced; that said, one of her lungs had already collapsed. Her legs were broken and her skirt torn, and judging by the state of the freshest corpses, it was more likely than not an attempt by the orcs to force themselves upon her in her moment of weakness. Before fainting, their mother had punched a new hole into her belt and tightened it around her damaged arm to prevent bleeding. Even then, it had been a very, very close call for her.

"Ah, there you are."

Arwen raised her head, her flickering from the patient on the bed to the four newcomers. One with red hair, two with black hair, and another with hair as pale as her grandmother. Celebrian raised her head and beamed. "Well, hello, you four!"

"Fuck, Bri," Katie blurted. "I'm sorry."

Katie looked like she wanted to squeeze Celebrian as tight as possible, and was restraining herself due to the bandages on Celebrian's chest. Celebrian winced as she attempted to raise her body into an upright position. Arwen, Katie and Fleur simultaneously attempted to get her to lay back down, and Celebrian relented.

"Like Katie said," Ron spoke softly, "I'm sorry you had to go through that. I assume that if you did not get influenced by us, you might have not come out looking like you were trampled by horses."

"Nonsense," Celebrian scoffed. "If I did not get influenced by you and fought back, they would have executed me. If anything, you helped me survive."

Ron still looked rather uncomfortable. Harry, on the other hand, looked as uncaring as ever. Did Arwen also mention that he was as tall as Lord Glorfindel? He stepped forward in his somehow-altered body and approached her mother. "Huh, who would've thought you had it in you? I personally always thought you looked rather 'armless." He snickered, and Celebrian and Arwen both glared at him. Fleur smacked the back of his head.

"Anyway, guess who else lost an arm?" Harry asked. Celebrian's eyes wandered over to Ron. "Correct. I could do what he did to himself - grow you an arm of quicksilver - or if you're willing to wait maybe five years, make you an arm of flesh and bone."

Celebrian thought about it. "What are the advantages and disadvantages of each?"

Arwen gasped. "Mother! Surely you could not be thinking of choosing an arm made of metal?"

"Hush, Arwen. Harry?"

"Well, the flesh and bone is fairly easy. You have proper nerve endings so you can touch and feel things. The quicksilver arm? Well, it's stronger, for a start, partly because of its durability. Ron can lift significantly heavier weights with his left arm than his right, for example. You'll be able to catch swords and stuff, because it's made of metal. As for cons? Well, you have the appearance of it, which I personally like because it makes you look like the T-1000, but I've been told it looks rather ugly. The sense of touch is also dampened - it's not completely gone, but reduced, and you'll easily miss fine details like coarseness and whatnot."

Celebrian looked down at her stump of an arm, frowning thoughtfully. It was at that moment that Lady Galadriel gracefully glided to the bedside; as always, she was wearing that serene, enigmatic smile. She hushed the entire room by raising her porcelain hand. Arwen swallowed. Her grandmother… while they had always been close, Lady Galadriel was a figure that commanded great respect, and Arwen could never feel entirely comfortable around her. As if she ought to scrape and bow.

"I would like to have a discussion with my daughter," Lady Galadriel said softly. "I invite Fleur and Katherine to stay. The rest of you, though, I would like some privacy from."

"My magic not good enough, is it?" Harry grumbled, but nonetheless headed to the exit with his friend. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Galadriel."

Galadriel's expression did not waver. "You too, Arwen," she said, not even looking at her.

"She's my mother," Arwen pleaded. This time, Galadriel did turn to look at her; Arwen shivered slightly as the raw power and _authority_ brushed over her. She felt so, so small, like an insect. And perhaps, Arwen was no greater a threat than a simple insect to her grandmother.

"I applaud you in your efforts to keep your mother comfortable. However, I would like to speak to her, regarding her life, including details that you do not know and are not mine to share," Galadriel said. "I only invite Fleur and Katie for their knowledge in magic and their admittedly long years with Celebrian."

"I've known my own mother longer than the two of them combined!" Arwen snapped.

Galadriel did not flinch, nor did her neutral expression waver. In fact, she did not seem angry or upset at all, and that somehow scared her more. "Arwen," Galadriel said softly, "I would like a private discussion with my daughter."

She was not saying anything she had not already said, but somehow, it was different. Arwen woodenly stood and left the room. The door to the infirmary shut with a sense of finality behind her, and she stared at her feet for a good minute before she raised her eyes again. She glanced to the side. Harry and Ron were there, chatting quietly. Ron snorted at something Harry had said.

"Hey, kid," Harry said. "Don't feel bad. Galadriel doesn't appreciate my commentary either."

"I am family," Arwen said bitterly. "I feel I should have a right to object to my mother's more questionable life choices, as minor as it may seem."

"Hey, it ain't that bad," Ron protested, revealing a glimpse of his reflective arm. "It's served me just fine for close to four thousand years."

"Yeah, and now she can become Celebrian Skywalker," Harry mused.

"Anakin and Luke lost their right hands, not left," Ron retorted, as Arwen simply blinked at him.

"Ah, my bad," Harry said thoughtfully. "I can't remember any characters with prosthetic left arms…"

Ron and Harry stood in contemplative silence. Just as Arwen was about to shuffle away, Ron snapped his fingers. "Imperator Furiosa?"

"Imperator Celebriosa?" Harry tested out. "Celebirator Furiosa?"

"Both are garbage," Ron commented, and the two men chuckled.

"Celebrian sure had a hell of a lot of fire in her," Harry said. "I skimmed the top of her mind, and what do I see? Pure, unadulterated, _badass_. Vengeance against the Orcs, desire to be stronger, with a dash of the secret ingredient, ambition to become the greatest terror this world has ever seen. And she's got the determination to achieve those things in spades. I was surprised."

"Seriously?" Ron said, even as Arwen's eyes went wide. _Seriously?_ she echoed Ron in her mind. Her mother had always been pacifistic, preferring gentle activities over fighting. It had changed slightly a few hundred years ago, when she became close with Fleur and Katie, but she had never realized just how far gone.

"No shit," Harry swore. "She's full of all those emotions Gandalf and Radagast would disapprove of, but I say good on her. She's a one-woman-army ready to take her due." He smirked. "I really like Imperator Furiosa, you know. Maybe I'll give Celebrian a present or two when Galadriel stops being a bitch to me."

He stiffened for a brief moment, before throwing up his middle finger in the direction of the infirmary, where Arwen knew her grandmother was situated still. Arwen missed the significance of the strange salute, but Ron chuckled, amused. Harry turned back to Ron, and pulled out two… devices. They were unlike anything that Arwen had seen before. Were they clubs? It was made mostly of wood, with bands of dark iron, and the tip of it was a thin metal tube. It also had some sort of strange metal contraption along the top of the strange device.

"You still think you got it?" Harry said with a cocky smirk.

Ron smirked back as his metal arm plucked one of the contraptions from him. "God damn, this brings back memories."

The two men, looking in all the world like old brothers-in-arms, strode out of the building. Their heavy footfalls echoed through the corridors, occasionally punctuated by the clicking sounds as they examined their weapons - for what else could they be - and the gentle breeze generated by their low-hanging coats brushing against the back of their boots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Man, this chapter was really difficult to write for me. I've been trying to give Katie and Ron some closure... it's hard. I always knew it would be, but I don't think I properly understood how difficult it was. Regardless, I think I will be moving into the realm of canon events soon. I've started re-reading the Hobbit - I hope I don't leave out any details, though.
> 
> Other factoids: the strange contraptions Harry pulled out were M1903 Springfields. Imperator Furiosa's wikipedia page said she carried an SKS. As a result, I decided to go with a WWII-era rifle as well. I'm afraid I don't know much about firearms, but you can expect that Harry's Wardrobe has an armory in it that contains every weapon imaginable, ones that they built themselves or others that they stole from various world governments (such as their collection of Cold War ICBMs).
> 
> My decision to kill off Ron and Katie generated some conflict within readers. That's fine, I'm not a perfect writer and I won't pretend to be. However, I stand by my decision, and if this really ticks you off, just write your own story. You can even just continue off the previous chapter. I'd be flattered if someone wrote a fanfic of my fanfic. Go wild, we're all taking inspiration from each other on this site.


	13. Chapter 13

**Afterlife**

A new day, a new repeat of this corporate slavery hell.

In a small, dingy office, a blonde woman sat in a chair. She had attractive features, no doubt; she had full pink lips, pale, flawless skin, and sharp blue eyes. She had a figure that many would envy and had a good sense of fashion that complemented it. Of course, these features were greatly diminished due to her stress. She didn't have bags under her eyes, or premature wrinkles, or smell bad, mostly due to the fact that she was completely and utterly dead.

The office itself was tight, the shitty metal desk likely produced in Afterlife China taking up a majority of the space. She was sitting in an office chair with wheels, perhaps the only decently-priced piece of furniture in this office. On the other side of the desk were two more chairs, those crappy plastic ones that public schools utilized. Scratched, stained, and generally unappealing. In one corner of the room was a large, refrigerator-sized machine that was painted a cheery sky-blue and had the letters ' **SIN-O-METER** ' printed along the top and illuminated in mostly-broken neon lights.

She glanced at the wall clock, the face of it covered in cellophane tape and one of her old Chinese takeout chopsticks replacing the minute hand, which had fallen off several hundred years ago. Her break would end in five minutes, and her shift would resume. Her sixteen-hour-day shift. It was at least a blessing that, being rather dead, she had no desire to use the restroom.

She stepped outside of her office, pushing past the wailing rows of souls awaiting redemption (or significantly more likely, judgment) and into the employee break room. It was the size of four offices stuck together, and had a small kitchenette in the corner. She was fairly certain that the cornflakes had been sitting on the counter before she even began working here. Tattered couches, covered in cigarette ashes and patched up with a lot of mismatching cloth, sat on the opposite end. One wall was dominated by a Albus Dumbledore Charity Bikini Calendar and someone had decided it couldn't possibly be bad enough already, and added godawful motivational quotes to it.

Her personal favorite was the one where someone different had mockingly wrote 'Don't Forget: You're Here Forever' just because of how honest it was. Of course, just because she liked it the most didn't mean she liked it. She fucking hated it. Just like she hated everything else here.

On the bright side, she wasn't here forever; she only had just over a hundred years to go. She was a pretty shitty person in life, but there were plenty of those. And being a spoiled princess was hardly comparable to murderers or rapists. She was fairly lucky to have been stuck in Mandos Inc. for a mere six hundred years, instead of spending a few million years in the truly deepest pits of the Seven Thousand Hells, the kind of places where people like Hitler or people who take up three parking spaces at a supermarket went.

Mandos Inc. was a fairly decent employer, too. Despite the sweatshop conditions, it could've been significantly worse. In any company party that he showed up to, she was fairly certain that Mandos was stoned out of his mind, and company policy reflected his laid-back attitude. She could've been working in YHWH Ltd. which she had not heard pleasant rumors about. One, the CEO of that afterlife services company was supposed to be a complete hardass, and two, he was allergic to like, all the shellfish, and apparently he decided if he couldn't have them, nobody else could, either.

She looked at the coffee machine, and refilled her plain white mug for the sixteenth time in the past three hours. She frowned as the device only managed to fill three quarters of her mug. Must have run out. She glanced around, checking if anybody had taken notice. Nobody was there. So, after a minute of just staring at the coffee machine, she shrugged and walked away. The next loser to show could fill it up for themselves.

She returned to her office one minute before her break ended. She sighed, burying her face in her hands, and got a good thirty seconds of sobbing out. As the second hand reached the 9 o'clock mark, she immediately stopped crying and returned to a completely neutral, completely unassuming expression. She smoothed out her crumpled suit jacket and waited for her next client to enter.

The door opened and she plastered on her customary smile. "Hi there, how can I help you today?" she asked, in an impressively monotone voice.

Two people. One was a redheaded giant of a man, with a neat, trimmed beard. Look at those muscles. She felt her mind wander to the stack of pornographic magazines she'd hidden in the second drawer of her desk. The other was a woman, with straight black hair that reached down to the shoulders. She frowned. They looked sort of familiar…

"Weasley?" she exclaimed, shocked.

"Greengrass?" Weasley frowned. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Daphne stared at him. "I died."

"Oh, of course! How could I have been so silly!" Weasley cried, and Daphne's left eye twitched violently. "I guessed as much, you daft bint. I'm asking why you're taking a rather Mugglish desk job."

"It's my punishment," Daphne replied in a hollow tone. "For being spoiled."

"I feel like that's your parents' fault more than yours," Karen Bell - yes, that must be her name - said.

"Thank you for your support," Daphne said flatly. "Now, how may I help you today?"

"Oh, come on, don't be a stranger," Weasley grinned. "How'd you die?"

"I don't see how that's relevant."

"I died as a result of being turned into a squib after burning out fighting a fire demon about a dozen millennia old," Bell piped up. Daphne stared at her. She hoped that Bell understood that whenever she lied, additional years were put onto her sentence.

"And I gave my magic away to Harry because in what world would I abandon Katie?" Weasley said fondly. Daphne resisted the urge to snap her fingers - so that was the girl's name. "Anyway, spill. You gotta tell us how you died."

"I-"

" _Know my God-given rights, I tell ya_!" A loud voice came from the next booth over, and Daphne winced. " _I want my lawyer yesterday, and I'm gonna sit right here say shit until they show up_!"

Katie and Ron exchanged glances. Daphne sighed. "Americans," she said, by way of explanation. Comprehension dawned on both their faces and they nodded. If Daphne had a penny for every time she had to deal with those obnoxious fake-English speaking assholes going on about their so-called 'rights', then she'd have enough money to pull that shitty country out of debt.

" _Anyway_ …" Weasley stretched the word out.

"I…" Daphne sighed. Those stupid rules about lying… "I died when a fire extinguisher fell from an eleventh floor and hit me on the head."

Weasley and Bell burst into laughter, while Daphne herself ground her teeth. Stupid Gryffindor assholes. This was why the rest of the school never liked them. They took a minute to calm down, after which Weasley snorted again and gave a few chuckles before he visibly forced himself to be quiet.

Daphne shuffled the papers on her desk, a ceremonial gesture. "Now, shall we proceed?"

"Alright, what do I do?"

"Mandos Inc. is the finest firm in the Afterlife regarding Reincarnation processes," Daphne said dully. "We guarantee the fastest Reincarnations and the most loopholes exploited to provide you with the best next life experience you can get."

"Fascinating," Weasley mocked. Her eye twitched again.

"Ron, stop torturing the poor girl," Katie murmured to him. At least she wasn't a complete bitch.

"Allow me to explain how the process generally works," Daphne said. "The Afterlife is where your sins are processed. Depending on how shitty of a person you were, you may be directed straight into the body of a recent sentient newborn or be pushed into one Hell or another for some time. Your sin is measured by the **SIN-O-METER** to my left, which judges the severity of your crimes."

"I didn't know sin was a measurable quantity," Weasley flapped his fat trap.

"I don't know how it works and frankly I don't care. Who would like to be Judged first?"

"Ooh, pick me!" Bell said excitedly. Daphne stood up and plonked a helmet that looked like a colander with Christmas lights wrapped around it onto Katie Bell's head.

"Are you ready?" Daphne monotoned.

"Yeah!"

Daphne pressed the green button on the **SIN-O-METER**. Goodness, she was an actual girl scout, it seemed, because only the first digit ticked over, and even then, very slowly. Daphne was impressed. Not many people went straight to reincarnation (or Heaven, if they preferred) but Katie Bell definitely met the threshold. After twenty seconds, the big blue lamp on the device flashed, signaling that Judgment was complete.

"Congratulations. You are hereby admitted to Heaven, or go straight to Reincarnation," Daphne said, her monotone covering her burning hatred and jealousy. "Now, Mr. Weasley."

Weasley grabbed the colander and put it on his head. Daphne pressed the green button. Then the machine rumbled, and the digits began to whirl. Ten, hundred, thousand… it kept whirling. Daphne blinked even as Bell was clutching her sides, laughing. How the He-ck had Bell managed to be such a goody-two-shoes while still associating with this fucker?

"Well," Daphne said awkwardly. "You're certainly a bad boy, aren't you?"

Weasley smirked at her.

The machine began to rattle slightly as the numbers crawled into the 'hundreds of thousands'. After a tense minute, it rolled into the millions. The dirty incandescent lamp hanging from the ceiling began to sway dangerously. Daphne's knuckles were white as she gripped the edge of her desk on a deathgrip, even as her pencils rolled and fell to the floor with a clatter. The lights in the room, including the still-functioning neon lights on the **SIN-O-METER** itself, began to flicker, as if approaching the end of its warranty.

Daphne gaped as the previous record for the greatest Sin Value she'd ever seen, a '22,304,586' set by one Ebony Darkness… something something was shattered by Weasley's whirling dials. It hit fifty million. Then a hundred million.

"D-did you participate in a little genocide, perhaps?" Daphne asked weakly. Weasley shrugged.

Daphne's eyes were glued to the machine, and the lights suddenly fizzled out. In the absolute darkness of the room, Daphne coughed as she smelled smoke. Bell helpfully opened up the door that they came in from to air out the room. The light from outside illuminated the **SIN-O-METER** to reveal the value '999,999,999'.

"Merlin's saggy bollocks," Daphne uttered.

"Is this going to be a problem?" Weasley wondered.

"Um, yes. Maybe a little," Daphne said, demonstrating just how little a problem it was by throwing her arms to the side. "You're going to be the most sinful member in a circle of Hell so obscure that there are probably only five people in it, and the others are probably going to be galactic dictators or sentient diseases or corporate lobbyists."

"Corporate lobbyists," Weasley repeated, his voice full of disgust.

"Precisely. And you'll probably never see the light of day again. Not that I'm complaining, I don't want to be in the same room as some guy with a Sin Value like that."

Weasley and Bell shared glances, then stared at Daphne for a bit.

"What?" Daphne demanded.

"How long have you been stuck in here?" Weasley asked.

"Four hundred, ninety-eight years, eleven months and twelve days," Daphne recited. "I was supposed to get out in just over a year. Then guess what? It got extended by one hundred fucking years. That annoying piece of shit SysAdmin wouldn't take the fucking hint and tried to grab my ass so I bitch-slapped the living shit out of him. That got me an extra ten years."

"And the other ninety?" Bell asked.

"I got fucking pissed off by that extra ten years to I just killed the little shit."

"Ah, that makes sense."

"It's fucking bullshit. It's not as if you can be killed down here for a second time, but they still ruled murder," Daphne moaned. "I fucking hate this place. I died from a goddamn fire extinguisher, I was still twenty-one years old! I was still cute! I didn't have nearly enough clothes and sugar daddies and I haven't got smashed at a party nearly enough times. I want to fucking live."

Weasley and Bell glanced at each other again. "Well, why don't you come with us?" Bell asked kindly.

Daphne stared. "What? But you're already going to Heaven. Why risk it?"

Bell snorted and jabbed a thumb at Weasley. "I'm not gonna leave him stuck in hell for all eternity. I'm already gonna smuggle him out, you may as well come with."

Daphne hesitated. If she were obedient for another one hundred years, she was guaranteed to get out of this bureaucratic hellhole. But she'd likely tack on an extra couple of decades onto her sentence if she failed to report Bell's smuggling operation to her superiors. Meanwhile, Bell was risking her own safety, freedom and happiness to help her evil fucker of a husband and had offered her on the ride as well.

"Alright," Daphne said. She allowed herself the first smile in five hundred years. "I'll come with you." Weasley and Bell grinned matching diabolical grins. Being near such an evil dude was terrifying, but against the Angelic Enforcers, the more evil the better.

They ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a short omake that I didn't quite finish last night when I put up the previous chapter. You can assume this is non-canon, because I'm fairly certain Mandos' Hall doesn't operate the way it is depicted here. Besides, death only leads to nothingness, a cold, neverending plane of featureless void, where your soul will be torn into fragments smaller than their constituent atoms and all memory of your existence will be utterly and completely erased forever...
> 
> Or, you know, get redirected to King's Cross Afterlife Co. after you get Harry Potter's signed and stamped MoD Express Pass.


	14. Chapter 14

**T.A. 2602, June**

It was a strange sight. All around him, sorcerers possessing magic different from the Istar stood, and demonstrating just as much by using their staves as umbrellas; a dome of wispy, silver magic covered them, protecting them from the rain. Gandalf was of the small minority that was getting wet.

Soon, though, the crowd dispersed. The great majority of these Sorcerers of Mount Gundabad had never met neither Ronald nor Katherine personally; they only knew the tales told by elder sorcerers and only the Headmaster or Headmistress had met them personally. Soon, only close friends that had attended the ceremony were left; Gandalf, Glorfindel, Celebrian, and the two remaining Warlocks.

A great statue stood before them, in the courtyard of this hidden academy. A man and woman, fifteen feet tall, embracing, unseen winds tugging at their scarves and cloaks. The man's left arm was constructed of steel and glowed dully in the rain. Their eyes were closed, their lips twitched upwards at the corners, in expressions of silent bliss. Upon the pedestal upon which they stood, a large, smooth panel of silver, were etched the words-

"' _Nothing gold can stay_.'"

Harry glanced at Gandalf. "Do you approve?"

"I think it is fitting," Gandalf said quietly.

"I thought so too." Harry and Fleur were among the minority that had chosen to be soaked. The rain was falling harshly now. "I'm terribly confused. It's something I haven't felt in a very, very long time."

"How so?"

"A part of me still refuses to recognize that they're dead," Harry admitted. "I've lived a long time, and I know a lot of things, and I have many answers. But one of the things that's always been certain in my life, just disappeared. They've always been here, yet they are here no longer."

Gandalf nodded. "Few things are as confusing as the departure of loved ones."

Fleur remained silent, but she brushed her fingers at her wrist. An old bracelet made of plant fiber and adorned with faded beads of ivory. Harry hesitated, before turning to Glorfindel. "Having died before and come back, tell me what you think of death."

Glorfindel stood in contemplative silence. "Death is inexorable," he said finally. "But legacy is not. If we wish to maintain the echoes of their life, we must live ourselves, to the best of our ability."

Harry nodded, slowly. "Yes, that makes sense. Have I ever told you that I've died before, too?"

Gandalf, Celebrian and Glorfindel blinked. "You have not," Glorfindel said, surprised.

"Yeah. This was back when I was… seventeen? Eighteen? I can't remember. But I was still a kid, fighting against a Dark Lord who specifically sought to kill me. I took a killing curse, and I died. I remember… my old mentor, Dumbledore, was waiting for me at a train station, not that you'd know what it is. Everything was white, even the robes that he wore. Dumbledore had died a year before I had, and he was one of the wisest men I've known, even after all these years. He told me I had a choice, either to move on to the afterlife, or return and finish my mission." Harry breathed out. "I chose to go back."

"It was not the easy choice," Gandalf said in a low tone, "but it was the right one."

Harry huffed in laughter. "You remind me of that old man so much, sometimes. That's almost precisely what he told me, once upon a time." He looked up at the sky, at the rainclouds. "I choose to stay, now, as well. I'll keep living. And I'll complete my mission, whatever it might be, and then I'll die happy."

"I think that's a good way to live," Celebrian said with a slight smile.

"We'll all die in the end. _Memento mori_ ," Harry said. "But we can also live before that. So that's what I'll do."

Harry bowed his head towards the statue and went silent. The others also clasped their hands and remained, the sounds of ever-increasing rain seeming appropriate for the moment of mourning. Five minutes later, utterly soaked, the visitors left the statue, heading inside the great spires of Gundabad. It had been carved from the very face of the mountain by mighty magic, the first generation of sorcerers to come here having been trained by two mighty Warlocks.

"What is _Memento mori_?" Celebrian asked. "It sounds not like any tongue I have heard."

"A dead language from our world," Harry gestured to himself and Fleur. " _Remember death_. A reminder of our mortality."

Celebrian nodded. "A promise."

"I suppose you could interpret it that way."

Fleur snapped her fingers and the moisture was blown off of the five of them; the others nodded to her gratefully. They stepped into a hallway, the ceiling so high that the murals carved into them were only visible to Harry and the two elves. They pushed past various students wearing robes with different colored linings. They stared, and whispered behind their hands, at the procession of students. Fleur found herself locking eyes with one girl who had pale skin and dark hair, not unlike Harry's own features.

Ambition. Frustration. Churning darkness.

The girl swallowed and looked away; Fleur's aquamarine eyes did not leave her face for a good moment, boring into her. The eye contact was broken but Fleur could see the threads of fate. Potential to return to the good, but a much higher likelihood of falling to darkness. A possible ambition to rule, to dominate. Much like Sauron, Voldemort, and Grindelwald before him.

Fascinating… would this one make a bid to become a Dark Lady? Fleur pushed the thought to the side of her mind and continued, following after the others through the halls of the Academy.

* * *

**T.A. 2637, February**

Within the town of Bree was an inn called the Prancing Pony. It was located in a good intersection of the town, bound to get the attention of most who passed through the town and thus, got plenty of clients. Dwarves, Men, even Hobbits, such that they had special rooms with furniture that was two-thirds the size that it was for other rooms, to cater for the exceptionally short.

The fact that it was a popular and trustworthy pub also meant it also received plenty of customers of various queer personalities. Jesters and jugglers often came to drink here and in the process entertained the mob; Rangers of the North, dour and quiet, drank away their sorrows in the corners; hunters and trappers discussed their recent achievements and argued over who was the best.

This was one of the reasons the young woman had been assured that the Pony was best for not arousing suspicion. Certainly better than frequenting the less reputable, dingier bars that could be found in various other parts of town. She hurried up to the barman, Tom (she was assured that all the barmen of the Pony were called Tom, for some unfathomable reason) and caught his attention.

"Two ales, please," she said, pressing four little copper coins onto the polished wooden bar. "One for myself and another for a friend, who… should be coming soon."

"Of course, dear," Tom said, filling up two mugs with the foamy beer.

"Thank you," the woman said, with a polite smile, and took the two beers, crossing the barroom towards the edge of the establishment, aiming for a less illuminated region.

She passed a drinking contest in which three - well, two now, that one fainted - strange figures were competing. One was a noble-looking elf, another was a greyhamed old man, and the last a giant with piercing green eyes. The old man had drunk himself to unconsciousness, the elf was supremely red in the face, and the green-eyed one was trying to talk trash but all the words came out as a single uninterrupted syllable.

She sat down at the edge of the table. Most of the bar's attention were focused among themselves or in the admittedly impressive drinking contest - more than a few bystanders had dropped like stones trying to match the current contenders. From under her cowl, her eyes darted every which way, constantly alert. Yet, for all her paranoia, she never detected the tall, slim figure leaning against the wall behind her, slender fingers idly twisting a needle-like knife between them, flipping and spinning, reflecting the candlelight placed at strategic positions about the inn.

Eventually the figure confirmed that the young woman had not been tailed, and stepped out of the shadow, and dropped gracefully into the chair opposite her. The woman flinched violently, and her hand twitched at a dagger on her belt. The newcomer, a cloaked and hidden figure, made an amused sound.

"Is that a dagger in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?" The newcomer teased, and the young woman flushed before forcing herself to lay her hands on her lap. "I was checking if you were followed. You were not. Good work."

"Are you…" the young woman licked her lips. "You are the Belladonna?"

"Indeed I am," the 'Belladonna' said, lounging upon her chair, crossing her legs off to the side. "And you must be our ever mysterious _Blue_."

"Y-yes," Blue replied quickly. "Are you… are you certain we should be speaking here?"

"The people in this town recognize me on sight," Belladonna replied, amusement evident in her voice. "They know enough that to interfere with my business will have rather unsavory consequences. This place will suffice, though I recommend you keep your voice down."

"I understand," Blue whispered.

Blue got her first good look at Belladonna, now that she was feeling confident enough to try and meet her eyes. The woman was entirely concealed, from head to toe; she wore a pair of leather trousers and expensive-looking leather boots, and her upper body was concealed by a heavy, armored trenchcoat. Her hair and eyes were hidden by a hooded cowl, and her lower face was hidden by a dark scarf. The only thing that was not entirely dark about her was the small, pretty silver pendant that hung around her neck and over her vest. Blue took a sip of her ale to try and reassure herself, to calm her nerves somewhat.

"I have heard a little about your situation," Belladonna said casually. "I would not have joined you without knowing. But like I said, only a little. I need you to explain better."

Blue curled her fingers around her mug once more, than took a swallow of the liquid. "I come from a family of sorcerers," Blue admitted quietly. "I live in a village north of the Grey Mountains. Cold, arid, but there's enough vegetation to keep cattle."

"Hm. Very interesting. Continue."

Blue flushed. "My grandparents, on my mother's side, attended an Academy on the peak of Mount Gundabad. It was founded hundreds of years ago when the original school was decimated in a sort of civil war in the far east; they'd fled with a third of their original number to the west, so they might find peace. They did, and the school began seeking out and finding children with the potential of magic, and began to educate them in the many magical arts. However, only first-generation and second-generation sorcerers with both magical parents got their tuition waived, meaning third-generation sorcerers like me cannot attend unless we come from an affluent family. As such, even while magical blood began to spread among the various settlements around the Grey Mountains or the Misty Mountains, a magical society began to form, with a magical hierarchy."

"Fascinating," Belladonna leaned forward, and Blue could tell she was being genuine this time. Her tone also seemed… hungry. "I suppose you did not go to magical school. What does this magical upper society look like? Do you know?"

"My mother was briefly part of it, having been courted by a wealthier young man when she was still in school," Blue admitted. "She said it was very pretentious. Elfin jewelry, dwarven gold molded into statues and animated… so on. About four hundred years ago, the self-proclaimed 'noble' houses began to transfigure their blood blue to signify their nobility." Blue paused. "I should probably explain what transfiguration is-"

"No, it's quite alright," Belladonna interrupted quickly. "Continue with the story."

"O-okay. Well, others began to proclaim that they were direct descendants of Ronald Stark and Katherine Bell, the founders of the school, when it is clearly documented that neither of them had children - it's just that neither of them visited that often, so it looked like those two weren't denying the claims, and that began to reinforce their ego," Blue muttered. "Others claimed they were descended from the drakes of the Withered Heath, despite how ridiculous that is as a concept, claiming they were dragon-blooded and superior…"

Belladonna sighed slightly. Blue picked it up, and blushed.

"Right, right. Well, there's one family called the Nightingale family. They're one of the richest, having married into a fairly wealthy merchant family, and using their magic, they were able to expand the merchant family's holdings further. As a result of their wealth, they were able to produce many children and still send all of them to school. This made them one of the most powerful and influential families since perhaps the mid-twenty-third century. They gained a reputation for being rather cutthroat, as all successful merchants do, I suppose, but they had ambitions. The idea of a Nightingale legacy has existed for a while, now. And their current heir, Olivia Nightingale, is one of the most powerful witches seen in recent history."

"And so, they felt this was an opportune time to spread their might," Belladonna finished.

Blue nodded jerkily. "The Nightingales hired mercenaries… plentiful gold and promises of high-ranking positions in a new Nightingale dynasty. Villages were subsumed under their control, and any opposition was quelled with violence, by both blade and magic. Nightingale vassal families joined them, as did some families that the Nightingales bullied into capitulation. And they have bullied many families - those who resist are generally killed on the spot, or captured then flayed alive. Entire villages refuse to speak their name, as frightened as they are. Besides the Academy itself, they are the greatest force of magicals to exist. They call themselves noble. The rest of the magical world call them evil."

"So this Olivia Nightingale is leading the effort?" Belladonna inquired.

"Madam Khawen - the leader of the resistance, I suppose - she believes that Olivia's father still advises her on how to proceed," Blue said. "However, Olivia was known to be cunning and very intelligent, so it may be possible that she is doing the planning herself."

"Hm," Belladonna said, locking her fingers together. Silence stretched. Blue swirled her half-full mug, watching the ale spin. Then, Belladonna tugged down her scarf, revealing a sharp, pale chin with beautiful, full lips that Blue could not help but envy; she picked up her mug and began to down the beer. Blue watched in surprise as she drained the beverage without taking a single breath in between.

She slammed the mug down on the table again. Blue noticed the slightly unhinged grin that Belladonna was wearing, and swallowed involuntarily.

"Very well," Belladonna said. "Done. I shall burn down this Nightingale dynasty into ashes for you and your friends. I detect no deception from you; you have told the truth and only the truth. These Nightingales are evil, for most people's definitions." Belladonna leaned forward. "You came to speak to me. Did you understand, before we spoke, that should I have detected any amount of lie in your tale, I would have killed you?"

Blue swallowed. "I've heard."

"Good. So you risked your life to meet me. To save your friends," Belladonna said. "I shall help you. I suggest you stay here. It is relatively safe, this town, and it would also prevent the news of my coming from reaching Nightingale ears."

"I… I understand. I don't think I have the money to live here for so long, though."

Blue's eyes widened as Belladonna drew a single gold coin from her sleeve, and curled Blue's fingers over it. "I shall consider this a loan to you; should I succeed, which I most assuredly will, I will include this in my final payment."

Blue nodded quickly.

"Very good. Now, tonight, you and I will rest. Tomorrow, I will disappear, and in six months, your problem will appear as if it had never existed." Belladonna smiled a cold, thin-lipped smile. "Come."

Blue only felt a growing sense of trepidation as she followed Belladonna into an upstairs room.

* * *

**T.A. 2637, April**

There was a small cottage on the slopes of the Grey Mountains, the doorway illuminated by a single oil lamp. Niflheim was no more than a day of walking away, and on the door was etched a single dwarf-rune. A small company of dwarves had been notified of such a home that might have such a rune on its door, and four cloaked dwarves entered the cabin with a slight creaking of the door.

The first thing that Gror noticed about the woman was how utterly beautiful she was. Fair hair tied into braids, pale skin that gave off a slight glow like silver, and cold blue eyes that pierced into his soul and seemingly dissected it with the precision of a trained physician. His eyes wandered down, to her left arm, covered - no, entirely made of quicksilver, shimmering with every small movement.

"Ah," she said in an angelic voice that Gror suspected that pious men heard after their deaths, "you're here."

"Gror, at your service," Gror hurriedly said. His companions - Oin, and Borin - all gave their murmured greetings as well, and bowed.

"I am Belladonna," the woman replied. Gror had not heard that name before, but beside him, Borin stiffened; he would have to inquire later. "And these are your coworkers; Astoria Black, a Snowfolk Sorceress, Thorondir, a Ranger of the North, and Robin Took, a famed Hobbit hunter."

Both of the males were dressed in heavy, dark clothing, though the former was significantly taller than the latter. However, the Hobbit was surprisingly tall for one, and well-muscled, sharply contrasting against what Gror knew of the peaceful people. He carried a strange contraption, likely a weapon for what else could it be? The woman, fairly short and dressed in heavy, concealing robes, carried a staff with runes engraved into it. He grunted in acknowledgement.

"Seven," Belladonna said, pleased. "Fortune will be on our side."

Gror seated himself at the table, his friends taking up the spaces between himself and the three other… coworkers. The Ranger's eyes were hidden by the shadows cast by his hood, but Gror did not doubt that the Man's gaze was on him. Gror tried to keep his face a mask of neutrality, but it was difficult; it was unnerving.

"Now that all of you are here," Belladonna spoke, "I would like to begin our meeting."

Nobody said anything; Belladonna nodded to herself and began to speak.

"Usually I would work on my lonesome; I have gathered the six of you together today, for our enemy will be strong, both in power and in numbers." Belladonna paused. "Our opponents for the next few months will be sorcerers, and those under the servitude of the sorcerers."

Gror listened intently as Belladonna began to explain the history of their enemy, the Nightingale clan. Olivia Nightingale, one of the most powerful sorcerers in recent history, with pale skin, raven-black hair and green eyes. Known as the first Dark Lady. Women with great power were rare in Middle-Earth, the only such examples Gror being able to think of being the various she-witches in Elven clans.

"Our job is to burn down this dynasty into ashes and scatter them in a storm," Belladonna said. "We have been promised a sizable reward for this contract. Not only that, but anything we wish to loot from the Nightingale is also ours. I have been assured that the family is very wealthy indeed, and my scouting seems to agree with that."

"Can we truly fight a small army with the seven of us?" The Hobbit grunted.

"I have faith," Belladonna replied simply.

"Or the magic-users?" The Hobbit continued.

"We have magic-users on our own side," Belladonna shrugged. "Astoria Black is rather powerful in her own right. Dunedain Rangers have some magic of their own, though most of them are passive effects such as resistance to mental influences. I, of course, have my own tricks."

Robin Took simply grunted again and did not object. Belladonna glanced around. "Any other complaints? No? Good."

"I have a question," the witch said. "When they say as much Nightingale loot I can carry, it means I can shrink stuff, right?"

"If you want," Belladonna replied. "But you don't steal from under your teammates' noses. Finder's keepers."

"That's fair," the raven-haired maiden said. She was dressed in all black - a corset, fur coat, pants and boots made from expensive-looking black leather. A dull silver pendant on a black choker. She smelled faintly of a perfume… lilac?

"The majority of the Nightingale combatants are unpowered mercenaries. As such, we expect that cutting the head off the snake would kill the whole rotten body," Belladonna explained. "Hence, our mission is infiltration and assassination, rather than guerilla warfare. The Nightingale clan's historical estate is located three miles southwest of the village of Alois."

Belladonna paused for a moment, then gestured to the map spread out on the table. "Both Alois and the estate lie on the west bank of the same river. It isn't particularly large or difficult to ford, but since it is used often to transport cargo and personnel, it will be heavily watched and thus we must avoid it where possible. The north side of the estate could be graciously called a cliff. I doubt the majority of us could climb it, especially weighed down by armor and weapons."

"A frontal charge?" Borin asked.

"Absolutely not. Aside from having to scale the walls, we'd have to fight large numbers of mercenaries and sorcerers both," Belladonna snapped, and Borin shrank back. "As much as I have faith that your thick skull could knock down the reinforced gates, the other parts of your plan are not so easy."

Gror and Oin shared glances before giving Borin a pitying look.

"No. Instead, we will be entering through their escape routes." Belladonna jabbed her finger at the map, pointing at the southwest of the estate. "They have hidden escape tunnels that are not as hidden as they seem to think it is. See, they didn't conceal it with magic because they thought that would make it easier to detect by other accomplishes sorcerers. That meant it made it easy for me to find. The Nightingales converted a small cave system into a wine cellar, and the wine cellar itself connects near the main bedrooms."

"How do you know all this?" Thorondir spoke for the first time, his voice raspy.

"I snuck into the cellar," Belladonna smirked. "My first plan was to blow the whole estate sky-high using magical explosives, but then I discovered a trap-door. Upon investigation, it led to the general direction of the estate and, at the opposite end, I found a different trapdoor, rather small, probably disguised. As for whether it's connected to the main bedrooms - it's an educated guess. No point having a secret entrance that you can't reach quickly in the event of a surprise attack."

Thorondir nodded, apparently satisfied. The Hobbit wore a thoughtful expression on his face. Gror looked around at the others, and swallowed. All of them seemed utterly unperturbed by the thought of taking on a small private army; even as a princeling of Erebor, and oft taking part in boar hunts - and sometimes orc and goblin hunts - with the most bloodthirsty of dwarf warriors, he had not met such casually terrifying folk as these.

"Tell us how you plan to get into this wine cellar," Astoria Black said, hushing all other conversation.

"And how you plan to get us out," Robin Took grunted.

"The guards posted at the cellars are, I assume, mostly to deter thieves. I believe that the Nightingales have told few people of the existence of their tunnels, and thus have attempted to paint a picture of normalcy surrounding their hidden tunnel. So nobody looks for it. Hence, we will be fighting perhaps four guards at most, as we enter - then we will break into the cellar and get in. This shan't take us more than four minutes, I think."

"And the way out?" Black urged.

"Assuming all goes well - we eliminate members of the clan, no guards are alerted, and we all grab our respective treasures - we shall take the same entrance out, as soon as possible. If it does not go well, we will barricade ourselves in the mansion and hold the Nightingale children hostage. Do not take any chances with the adults, however, and certainly not with Olivia Nightingale herself."

"Very well," Black sniffed and leaned back into her chair. "I shall expect fighting. But if this turns into a full-blown siege, I will abandon you. That's not what I signed on for."

"Oh, please. If it turned into a bloodbath, you'd be the one most enjoying themselves," Belladonna laughed, and Black smirked in response. "But fine. Be that way. Are the rest of you happy with this arrangement? Suggestions?"

No objections were raised.

"Excellent. We leave at dawn. It should take us a day of travel - we'll arrive at dawn the next day. We'll rest throughout the day, and we'll sneak in at night. I trust all your weapons have been sharpened and the dents in your armor banged out?"

Gror silently nodded alongside the others. Belladonna smiled. It was beautiful - but not particularly kind.

* * *

**Two Days Later**

Darkness had fallen about four hours ago. Robin was known as Honest Rob back home, but even his friends certainly wouldn't call him that if they knew of his little side-profession. He sorted through the various copper casings, examining them in the light of the small campfire, checking for signs of rust.

The Guild of Bulletmakers did their best, Robin was sure, but it just wasn't good enough. Or consistent enough. It wasn't so bad that it damaged his 1873 Winchester, but it did make his aim off at times. Furthermore, the Guild of Bulletmakers in turn could not control the quality of the gunpowder - that was made by a different guild, located in the Grey Mountains somewhere, their processes guarded ferociously by both the guild itself and outside factions seeking to minimize the influence of gunpowder on the world.

"Is everyone ready?" Belladonna asked. She received a chorus of nods in return.

Robin tucked his grandmother's old rifle under his cloak, hiding it from view; Thorondir threw dirt atop the campfire until the flames died out. They moved quickly towards the direction of the estate, using the cover of trees to hide from the occasional patrols. Astoria Black was leading, using her mage sight to detect any magical traps or alarms, of which there seemed to be very few.

After an hour of walking, Belladonna, now cloaked entirely in blue so dark it may as well be black, gestured toward an armored pair of wooden doors. "Wine cellar," she said softly. The others nodded. Belladonna glanced at Robin, who lined up his sights and held his breath. He need not worry about the thunderclap that would follow; the sorceress had used her magic to make it silent.

He pulled the trigger.

The firing pin fell upon the priming compound, igniting the gunpowder and propelling the bullet (rather explosively, heh) at its target. The thin steel plate over leather covering the man's chest was not enough to stop the .357-inch wide lead shard from likely shattering his ribs into tiny fragments that would then pierce his lungs and heart. As the first man fell, the other two guards glanced in shock at their fallen comrade.

Robin pumped the lever and fired thrice more in quick succession. The second struck the lower chest of the guard, and his third shot missed by a couple of inches, but he redeemed himself with a headshot to the last guard before he was able to call for help. All three guardsmen fell with dull thumps to the ground. The second one wheezed in pain.

"Quick," Belladonna hissed, and sprinted across the clearing. The Ranger was hot on her heels. As for the four people of a shorter kind, and the woman who was neither a dwarf nor Hobbit but was regardless shorter than either the mercenary or the Ranger? It was a little irritating.

Belladonna slashed the second guard's throat with what appeared to be an elven knife. The wheezing stopped immediately, replaced with low gurgles. She glanced at the sorceress, who nodded, and she quickly but carefully pushed the door open. Robin shouldered his rifle and followed the three dwarves inside the cellar.

"Shall we take one of the torches?" One of the dwarves muttered.

"Do so," Belladonna agreed, and one of the two torches adorning the entrance of the cellar was stolen. Thorondir led the way with the torch, his footsteps deceptively silent despite not even being a Hobbit or an elf. The sorceress followed closely behind, looking for any traps. The trapdoor was located on the far end of the cellar, as Belladonna had reported, and it was quite well designed, blending in with the wooden flooring.

"Watch your step," Belladonna whispered as they descended into a cave system.

This time, Robin and the Dwarves were the smug ones, considering the other three had to duck their heads to walk through the cave. Thorondir swapped out with the Dwarves who was instead elected to lead the way as they were in their natural habitat. Belladonna softly called out directions from the rear of the group. Two minutes of tense silence was rewarded with a barely-visible light that turned out to be coming from a chink between panels.

"Is this it?" Oin muttered.

"Yes," Belladonna replied. "I don't see any magic on it, but just in case - Astoria?"

"Nothing," Astoria Black replied.

"Good to know. Thorondir, you first, myself second, Astoria third. Then Oin, Borin, Gror, then Robin. Clear?" All nodded. "On three."

Thorondir shouldered open the trapdoor which made a hideously loud freaking noise; Robin was not the only one to wince even as Thorondir rolled gracefully onto his feet and Belladonna quickly followed. Astoria clawed her way out of the trapdoor and she immediately raised her staff.

"Guards investigating from that corridor," Belladonna hissed, gesturing to her left. "Buy us time. Astoria needs to take down any magical defenses."

"Aye," the Dwarves said, jumping out of the cave, Robin quickly following. The three warriors glanced at each other, before taking positions behind pillars, or hiding behind suits of armor. Robin pushed himself to the side of the corridor, tightly clutching the polished walnut-wood.

There were three corridors; the one that Robin and the Dwarves were guarding, one that led to the opposite direction, and one that was perpendicular to either of them. The one opposite to theirs likely led to the front of the estate, while the perpendicular corridor that the sorceress was examining led to the sleeping quarters.

Four guards emerged from the corner, spotted Robin, and charged him.

They were well-armored, he'd give them that, but it wouldn't be much use against his weapon. A full tourney knight's armor might have mitigated the damage, but even then he wasn't certain. The lead guard fell, his viscera painting the polished helms of his comrades, and the other three stared in dumbfounded shock.

At that moment, the three Dwarves jumped out from their hiding places and crunched their broad, heavy axes into the knees and hips; the guards that weren't almost cleaved in half raised agonized gasps. The second blow, when necessary, struck at their neck, and they didn't miss. The Dwarves, thankfully, were quiet throughout the whole affair. Robin had been afraid that they might give into their berserker urges.

"Good work," Belladonna stage-whispered from their corridor. "Come. The path is open, but expect resistance."

The four rushed around the corner and found Thorondir standing over the corpse of a man dressed in simple but expensive-looking robes. Likely not one of the clan; perhaps a chamberlain? They glanced at each other then at the heavy wooden doors at the end of the corridor. The leader of the Nightingale clan would unlikely be located behind these doors. They nodded to each other, and Thorondir again led he way, shouldering the door open violently.

On the other side were three people. One was undoubtedly Olivia Nightingale herself, looking harried in her sleeping gown, clutching a staff made of some type of wood. Her beautiful face was twisted into an expression of rage. On either side of her were another mage, a tall man with his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back, and someone who was likely the guard captain; bald, scarred, and dressed in armor that had gold ornaments.

"You dare?" Olivia Nightingale hissed.

Robin - and judging by her expression, Nightingale as well - was not expecting Belladonna to launch herself into combat with incredible speed and ferocity. No dialogue, it seemed - she drew a wicked-looking black sword from somewhere under her cloak. It snapped out like a serpent's tongue, and the mage who had stepped in front of his mistress cried out in pain as his hand was sheared off. Robin shuddered as the blood appeared to seep into the blade - as if the cruel-looking thing was thirsty.

Thorondir also struck out at the guard captain, whose own honed reflexes allowed him to parry and avoid his coworker's fate. Nightingale snarled and twirled her wand; the four suits of armor decorating the hall came to life, jumping off their pedestals onto the thick carpet with a muffled thud, drawing their swords with perfect synchronity. The dwarves roared and charged at them, chopping with their heavy axes.

As Belladonna flickered out of the sorcerer's way to attack Nightingale, Robin quickly raised his gun and fired twice. The first bullet bounced off whatever shield the mage had raised, but the force of it had shattered it; the second struck the man's shoulder, unfortunately for the same arm that was injured earlier. He staggered backward, teeth gritting in obvious pain, and he swung his own staff one-handed at Robin, lashing out with a sickly violet bolt of light. Robin thanked his shortness as he easily ducked under it and brought his weapon to his shoulder once more, taking a moment to aim and fire.

A decent chunk of his head was blown off and he collapsed. At around the same time, Thorondir had managed to behead the guard captain. The dwarves had also disabled the four inanimate constructs and eyed Nightingale nastily, slapping the heads of their weapons into their palms like they were clubs. Robin raised his weapon to point it at Nightingale.

Nightingale noticed the demise of her allies and swung her staff around her, releasing a powerful telekinetic blast; Robin himself and the Dwarves were knocked off their feet, Thorondir struggled not to, Astoria cast a shield around herself in time and remained upright. Belladonna, closest to Nightingale, took the hit point-blank and was thrown backwards.

"Bastards!" Nightingale roared, and made a circular motion with her staff. A glowing line of blue traced itself in midair, and when the two ends of the thread connected, a dark portal winked into existence with a violent rush of air. "Faquarl, I summon thee!"

"A _magician_ ," Astoria spat in disgust. "Should've known I'd be fighting someone weak enough that they must summon demons."

Nightingale sneered. "Your arrogance will be your death."

"I could say the - whoa!"

Astoria dived to the side as a fairly ordinary-looking man - well, if his hands did not split apart into cephalopodic tentacles instead of fingers, and a complete lack of any features above his seemingly sown-on mouth - shot a tentacle at her. Robin noticed that, despite being completely flexible, it was also hard enough to pierce the stone wall behind Astoria. Meanwhile, Nightingale laughed hysterically and began to animate the headless body of the guard captain. Belladonna seemed mildly dazed as she returned to her feet, and Thorondir charged the tentacled freak.

Robin fired twice at the creature, the first pinging off one of the tentacles as if they were made of steel, and the second striking its gut; it didn't react at all, as if it hadn't felt anything, and continued fighting without even looking at Robin. It was focusing its attention of Thorondir who was trying his best to keep the whip-like appendages away from Astoria, who in turn dueled Nightingale in a battle of not physical, but magical prowess.

He instead turned to the headless captain who was being engaged by the three Dwarves; the corpse, no longer capable of feeling pain, had taken to moving faster and harder should be humanly possible, going so far as to dislocate its own limbs so that it had a wider angle of attack, likely tearing its own tendons and ligaments into fragments that would undoubtedly cause great pain if it still lived; Robin watched in horror as the corpse kicked Borin away, then coiled its whole body like a spring in an impossible feat, and then sprang, blade lashing out, with so much force that the sword crunched through Borin's leather-and-steel breastplate and his mail coat underneath.

Oin roared in fury and spun his axe, taking off one of the corpses' arms after it tried, and failed, to dislodge the sword from inside Borin's ribcage. Borin himself gurgled, choking on his own blood, and fell to his knees, life escaping him. Gror howled as he ran at the flesh-puppet, and cleaved the corpse right in half down the neck all the way down to its navel.

Robin turned to see the demon, Faquarl, fighting on more than even terms against Thorondir and Belladonna combined. Astoria Black was also struggling against Nightingale, although more or less equal. It was truly a sight to see, even if terrifying - Robin had seen many things, but not many sights could compare to a duel between sorceresses, each of whom had the intent to kill the other. Flame and ice danced and countered each other while multicolored streaks of light surrounded them. The very dimensions of the room shifted as each sought to create an environment to their advantage.

Robin took aim at Nightingale and fired; a shield intercepted his bullet, and unlike the older mage from before, the shield was significantly stronger, likely having been built up over time to protect from magical projectiles as well as mundane. Nightingale's eyes briefly flickered to Robin - Robin saw that as clear as day, for Olivia Nightingale's eyes were glowing white, illuminated by the great power storming within her - and she decided that a longer duel with Black was undesirable, especially now that the remaining Dwarves had joined the fight against Faquarl.

The demon suddenly lurched, its tentacles snapping outward in a wave-like motion; everyone around it was pushed back, and the whips shot out in Astoria's direction. The sorceress reacted too late; one of the sword-like projections punched through her midriff, and she looked down in mild shock; her magic bled away, the turbulence fading, and she slumped onto the floor on her knees.

Belladonna charged forward with incredible speed, her elven blade flashing. Faquarl moved to intercept her as she ran down at Nightingale. Belladonna, however, slapped away the serrated edges of the tentacles that had shot in her direction - the fabric of her sleeve tore, revealing a left arm made of quicksilver, as flexible yet durable as any of Faquarl's own limbs, entirely undamaged from the encounter. Nightingale's eyes widened as she saw the arm.

As powerful as the sorceress might be, she was a mere Man in the face of a she-elf; faster, stronger, and more agile than any Man. The blade blurred three times; the first split the staff, the second severed her hand, and the last punched upward through the small of her back into her heart. The tip of the blade disappeared from between her breasts as soon as it appeared; Belladonna practically ripped the sword out of Nightingale, the action causing a neat line of dark crimson blots to splatter on the floor.

Faquarl completely stopped. Then, for the first time, and in the most unnerving manner, it split open its too-wide mouth with too-many-too-sharp teeth, and _it grinned_.

"Oh, shit," Belladonna whispered.

"Run!" Thorondir shouted, throwing Astoria Black over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes; Oin and Gror picked up Borin between them and began to run. Robin fired until his Winchester ran out of ammunition at the unhinged creature, aiming for its legs, kneecaps - and finding it to no effect, as seemingly its legs were not normal either.

"What in Durin's name is that?" Gror shouted as they rounded a corner.

"A demon!" Belladonna shouted back over the sound of crunching masonry and shattering furniture. They sprinted down the stairs. "We're going out the main courtyard!"

"What?" Robin shouted incredulously.

"No choice!" Thorondir grunted, adjusting his grip on Astoria, one hand slick with her blood. "I'd rather face eighty of the Nightingales' personal guard than that thing."

"It's unbound," Belladonna cried mournfully. "The sorceress kept the creature under a metaphorical chain. Now that the holder of the chain is dead…"

"Watch out!"

" _Shite!_ " Gror swore in a matter not befitting a member of the royal family as he jumped to the side, narrowly avoiding being cleaved in half - just like the floorboards underneath him. The demon was rending the walls and the floors as part of its hunt, to the point that the entire house shook with each of its indiscriminate strikes, and with every passing second the foundations shuddered more worryingly.

"Run!" Belladonna screamed at the shocked guards peering in from the front door. Foolishly, they drew swords and tried to apprehend them.

"Halt!" One of them called. None of them halted, barreling through the guards. They didn't get an opportunity to complain, since the demon within had found even more playthings.

Screams joined the sounds of ripping and tearing as at least half of the guards they'd rudely pushed through were torn apart into confetti, tentacles that were suckered like that of an octopus but significantly stronger and even serrated, grabbed on them and either simply shredded them or tore them apart limb by limb. The other guards ran, save those who were too terrified to move; they were the next to be destroyed. One entire wing of the house crumbled even as the demon - Faquarl - stepped out of the front doors, manic grin stretching to and from each nonexistent ear.

"We're dead," Oin whispered. "It'll catch us on open ground."

"Don't give up," Belladonna urged. Robin spared a glance back.

And from all the way across the front courtyard, Robin watched as time seemingly slowed, his legs painfully dull. The demon leaped, and Robin watched his death come ever closer, faster than he could have ever imagined it move - and he realized that this would be the day that he would die.

Until the demon stopped, its manic grin gone, replaced with an expression of mixed confusion and possibly even fear.

Then a massive shadow knocked Robin down with the wind it created with its passing; great jaws snapped up the demon in its maw and tossed it high into the air. Robin could only barely hear the prayers from Oin as a titanic black dragon spewed green fire straight up, the pillar of flame taller than mountains and piercing the skies. The tortured screams of the demon caused relief to well up within him until the emotion started to overflow in the form of tears.

Robin wiped at his eyes with his sleeve in as someone - Belladonna, most likely - tugged his arm, pulling him through what appeared to a portal, but not the demonic kind - and into somewhere warm and cozy instead of cold and bloody. Then he fainted. He deserved some sleep.

* * *

**One Week Later**

Fleur didn't bother with knocking. Harry trusted her enough with, well, everything, so it wasn't as if she needed to knock beforehand. The only time she did was if she had someone else with her, someone who wasn't Ron or Katie. She felt a pang or melancholy at that. But she'd remember their last wishes. When their jaunt in Middle-Earth was finished, they'd go back to where they came from, and scatter their ashes around the Burrow on a warm summer evening.

Harry looked up and smiled at her. Not the smug smirk he often wore when he knew he was annoying someone and liked it, or the shameless grin he wore when he made a dumb pun, but the soft, appreciative smile that he wore sometimes that melted Fleur's heart.

"Hello," he called, and beckoned her over. Fleur returned the smile and placed the stack of papers on his desk before melting into his embrace. He was cool to the touch. To her, anyway, since she had fire running in her veins, thanks to her heritage. But that was fine by her. She kissed his neck before straightening.

"This was what my golems could find," Fleur said, gesturing at the papers. "Very good shape, honestly."

"Any successful merchant will keep a very well-maintained set of logs and journals," Harry shrugged. "I wouldn't have expected anything less of what was, in heart, a powerful merchant clan. Was there anything interesting?"

"Dear, you know I have no interest in these things. I did read a very sappy love letter that Alicia Nightingale kept from her childhood, however."

"Aww." Harry placed his hands on his chest. "How sweet."

"I know, right? Anyway, I'm going to get something to drink. Anything I can get you?"

"Just water, thank you," Harry replied. Fleur nodded, made to leave, but Harry grabbed her wrist and pulled her down to give her a peck on the cheek first. She laughed, and then left after that with a smile on her face.

Harry leaned back in his armchair. A flicker of his eyes opened up the various logs and journals. He decided he'd start with the most recent transactions, just to get an idea of this so-called Olivia Nightingale. Supposedly formidable, and Celebrian had witnessed her summon a demon. Harry had not been expecting that at all, especially not from Ron and Katie's students - messing with otherworldly creatures was a recipe for disaster. That meant they had either figured out how to do this on accident, or they had learned it from someone else.

That did not bode well.

Harry snapped open Slytherin's locket and Tom Riddle appeared next to him.

"Bored again?" Tom asked, glancing at the paperwork.

"Maybe. I have a question. Did you ever learn to summon demons? If so, when and where?"

"Hogwarts and Hogwarts. Please, Harry, the Restricted Section is one of the largest repositories of ancient and forgotten magics in the world. Summoning was one of the earliest forms of magic, with many modern magical species assumed to be descended from lesser demons that avoided detection. The Mesopotamians used demons, the Babylonians, the Egyptians, the Romans… the list goes on."

"And would you ever use demons for your work?"

"If I were exceedingly stupid or ignorant, yes. You should know this."

"Mm. Celebrian said that the sorceress she'd been tasked with killing had summoned a demon."

Tom paused. His red eyes narrowed slightly. "I see. Is it dead?"

"I called Alduin to kill it."

"Good. If you died attempting to subdue it, I would never achieve freedom."

"Please. I'm sure I can take on most demons. And besides, I'm rather good at Summoning myself. It's just like Pokémon, except with more screaming."

Tom rolled his eyes. "If only I was enslaved to someone with a better sense of self-preservation."

"You'd hate it I were a bore, Tommy Boy."

"Of course, Harry. I'm mean to you because I have a crush on you."

Harry snorted as he flicked through the logs. Business transactions were mostly performed by Olivia Nightingale's father, the patriarch of the clan. It made sense; Olivia was a powerful sorceress but, like Fleur, was more interested in magical power than economic power. There were a few where she personally oversaw the trades, however. Those were usually more personal goods. For example, this one, where she purchased a dragonhide cloak made from the leather of cold-drakes in the Withered Heath. And this one, where she purchased a bronze mirror from…

Harry stilled.

"What is it?" Tom leaned over his shoulder.

"Do you recognize this name?" Harry pushed a bit of magic out to highlight the letters in golden light.

_Decorative bronze mirror from_

_Raiano Faer_

"Can't say I do," Tom drawled.

"I don't either, but it feels to me like I should," Harry murmured.

"Do you truly feel it's that important?" Tom asked, genuinely curious.

"Maybe." Harry was silent for some time. "But not in a good way."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update. I don't have regular access to my laptop recently, so all the writing is being done on mobile. As you can imagine, this takes some time. That, of course, is not the only problem - I told myself I'd start introducing The Hobbit elements this chapter, and I didn't; I thought it might be a good idea to show how HP magic had influenced the world a little. Then I told myself I'd update within a month, and I didn't; I ended up writing 10k words for a Worm/American Gods crossover that had been taking up my headspace instead.
> 
> So yeah. Thanks for waiting, here's a new chapter. I sincerely hope you enjoyed. Let me know your thoughts.


	15. Chapter 15

**T.A. 2941, April**

In a hole in the ground, there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down or eat; it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.

In one particular hobbit-hole in the small and quaint settlement of The Hill was one Mister Bilbo Baggins. He was a Baggins, and a Baggins, you see, are of the respectable sort, and folk regarded them well, not because they were rich (although they were) but because they were perfectly ordinary and did nothing adventurous or unexpected of any sort. And, on the outside, Mister Bilbo Baggins was very much like his parents and grandparents and his grandparents’ parents before him, and appeared to be perfectly relaxed and comfortable in the estate of Bag-End that his father Bungo Baggins has built for his mother, Missus Bungo Baggins.

But you see, before her marriage, Missus Bungo Baggins was one Miss Belladonna Took. And Tooks, despite their wealth - even greater than that of the Bagginses! - was not considered to be as respectable or as proper, because it was rumored that every once in a while, members of that family went missing - and the family would hush it up. Of course, everyone still knew that they were going on adventures, just like their great-grandmother, Amarylla Took, who penned a novel of all her many adventures that was read by young’uns and adults alike even today. Folk said that long, long ago, a fairy had married into the Took clan, and that was how their mischievous streak began.

Not only did Bilbo have Tookish blood, it was by some miraculous coincidence (almost as if it had been engineered by somebody else) that Belladonna had inherited the Took family’s ancestral weapon - the 1873 Winchester, supposedly a gift from an ancient sorcerer. An item that was kept a great secret from other families, even from sub-branches of the Took clan, it was as valuable as it was rare and it was kept stowed away in a chest lined with silk to keep it safe. Bilbo has only once seen it in action, when he was a mere child still, during the Fell Winter of 2912, when Bungo was out with the rest of the male adults hunting starving wolves that a stray pair of mutts had threatened Bag-End and his dear mother Belladonna (bless her soul) had protected her child with the ferocity of a mother bear, which was how Bilbo knew that his antique weapon still worked and how.

Bilbo did not particularly like weapons and they made him uncomfortable; yet he was greatly interested in old things, things from the far past and rare things, things from sorcerers certainly among the rare - and so, when he was certain he’d not be receiving visitors that evening, he might occasionally take out the weapon from inside the velvet and silk-lined chest from behind his mother’s portrait in the sitting room and polish the walnut-wood or brass components and inspect the scratches and worn grip while wondering who had held it before, where, and when. All this time, it acted as a reminder of his adventurous heritage, not that he knew.

Regardless, Mister Baggins was of the respectable sort and would not dream of having adventurous thoughts unless his life depended on it, and being a bachelor he had no children to protect with the old weapon like some sort of berserker from fairy-tales. The kind of thoughts that he instead had revolved around what he might eat that evening - perhaps fish? Maybe he could go fishing later - or whether that damnable old Proudfoot - Proudfeet? He could never recall - was going to pay off his loans.

This one particular morning, after a pleasant stroll down to Bywater - as always, he glanced into the Big House, the only residence in the area that was built aboveground, strange - and returning to Bag-End by walking alongside the river, he had plonked his behind on his lawn chair and kicked up his hairy feet onto a small stool and begun putting on some of the finest pipeweed in the Shire. This was perhaps his favorite time of day, besides supper. He closed his eyes and only opened them to inspect the smoke-rings he blew, but he saw a rather tall and older gentleman coming his way - Bilbo heard his heavy black boots on the cobblestone, his white beard swish-swishing over his silver scarf, his grey cloak flapping about with each step he took, and of course, he had a rather pointy blue hat that was hard to miss.

“Good morning!” Bilbo called, and he meant it. Bright blue, cloudless sky, windless and warm. 

The gentleman stopped, leaned on his staff and stuck out his bushy eyebrows from under the brim of his pointy hat. “What do you mean?” asked he. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?”

“All of them at once, I suppose,” Bilbo said with nary a pause, “and a very fine morning for a pipe of tobacco outdoors! If you have a pipe, do sit down; have a fill of mine. We have all the day ahead of us!” To demonstrate, Bilbo sat back down and blew an impressive smoke-ring that lazily floated up towards the skies.

“Very pretty,” he said, “but I’m afraid I have no time for leisure. You see, I am looking for someone to join an adventure, and finding someone is proving rather difficult.”

“I should think so!” Bilbo said. “We are all very quiet folk with no need for excitement. Nasty things, these adventures - makes you late for supper!” And then he took out his letters and pretended to go through them, thinking that the elderly gentleman that he might not be quite the kind of folk he was used to, but the man simply leaned on his walking-stick and stared rather intensely with his sharp blue eyes. 

Bilbo squirmed under his gaze.

“Good morning!” He cried finally. “No adventures here, thank you! You might try over The Hill or across The Water.”

“Good gracious, plenty things you use ‘good morning’ for,” he laughed. “Now you’re saying that it shan’t be a good morning till I scuttle off!”

“Not at all my dear sir,” Bilbo backtracked. “Hm, let me see - would I know your name?”

“I certainly hope you would,” he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means me!”

“My goodness,” Bilbo said, “you mean to say you are the Gandalf who gave Old Took those diamond studs that fastened themselves? Or the Gandalf that brings such delightful fireworks! Or the Gandalf who is responsible for so many little lads and lasses going on adventures every time you visit - from climbing trees or visiting elves or… life used to be rather int- I mean, you used to upset many around these parts once upon a time. I beg your pardon, but I hadn’t any idea you were still in business.”

“Where else should I be?” Gandalf chuckled. “All the same I am pleased you remember something about me - and I see you look upon my fireworks kindly, and that is not without hope. For your grandfather the Took’s and your dearest mother Belladonna’s sake, I shall give you what you asked for.”

“I beg your pardon, but I have asked for nothing!”

“You have - twice now! My pardon. I give it you. In fact I will go so far to send you on this adventure. Very amusing for me, very healthy for you - and very profitable too, if you ever get over it.”

“Sorry!” Bilbo interrupted. “But I do not want any adventures. Good morning! But might you come to tea? Any time you like. Why not tomorrow? Excellent, see you tomorrow. Goodbye! Good morning!”

Then he scurried back inside his home and quickly closed his circular door, just slow enough that it wouldn’t be seen as rude. Bilbo sucked in a breath and determinedly stride back further into his home, pushing aside thoughts of the pushy visitor. A cup of tea. Yes, that would help him calm down - and so he went to the kitchen and filled his kettle and hung it over the fire, and went to fetch some tea-leaves from one of many pantries in this hole.

As the kettle boiled, without his knowledge, the old man known as Gandalf was quietly chuckling to himself before he reached out with his walking stick and scratched a single dwarf-rune beside the polished brass doorknob on the fresh-painted green door. Yes, this little hobbit would be absolutely perfect for the adventure to come! Once his little act of vandalism was done, he stepped back away from the door and strode away whistling to himself the tune of a song he’d learned from his friends called ‘Hey Jude’.

Mister Baggins soon forgot about the older gentleman as he read through his letters; not just pretending this time, and also the fact that Proudfoot - Proudfeet? The handwriting was indecipherable - had failed to deliver on his loans once more after sinking his money into dice and cards had him muttering angrily for a whole hour such that the thought of the wizard was put away from his mind. As he drank his tea, he ended up reading the Eriador Chronicle, a newspaper published and printed in the foothills of the Blue Mountains and delivered fortnightly to the richer folk. 

A wonderful idea, this - he remembered when newspapers had first been introduced to the Shire, when he was but a child, and the hobbits (at least those that could afford the cost of paper) had immediately taken a love to it. The Chronicle had been delivering to other settlements but had taken some time to get to the point it could distribute far and wide across Eriador. Bilbo himself loved it so much that he took to re-reading the whole thing every day so that he could entertain himself till the next edition came out and, when it did, carefully wrapped the old edition in waxed paper and stowed it away on his bookshelf.

There were reports on politics, though that didn’t particularly interest him, with his being so far away from any of the kingdoms of Men or elves. He enjoyed reading the commerce section, in which dedicated mathematicians and traders commented on the price of wheat or Shire-produced tobacco (which the Baggins estate supplied part of) or whether the vineyards further south were having a good year or bad. The most interesting page though, in his humble opinion, was the ‘Take a Trip Round Middle-Earth’ which would produce a precise black-and-white likenesses (once he had wondered what kind of artist could produce such accuracy, but had been told it was not even a painting!) of beautiful sights around the World, explain their histories and appeals. Again, he did not know that his spirit of adventure was being subtly stirred as he collected pictures of Amon Sul or Rivendell or the old forest of Fangorn.

He especially liked the writer called ‘Fleur Delacour’, who always wrote the most beautiful sentences befitting the most gorgeous of scenery and ended every article with ‘In Loving Memory.’ In loving memory of whom he did not know but it always warmed his heart to read it. 

All in all, he had a rather pleasant day, finishing off his afternoon with tea-time with many copper-colored, perfectly-baked scones and fluffy cakes, and any thought of grey-hamed wizards or notions of adventure were thrown right out the window until the evening of the next day when there came a magnificent ring at the doorbell and the poor hobbit was startled out of his supper.

“I’m coming!” He called. That must be Gandalf! Though he was loathe to admit, Bilbo could be rather forgetful if he did not write reminders in his little log-book. “Just a moment!”

He opened the door and came face-to-face with not a wizard, but a dwarf! A dwarf with a blue beard tucked neatly into his gold helmet and with bright eyes underneath his dark green hood. “Dwalin, at your service!” He said, bowing.

“And Bilbo Baggins at yours!” Bilbo did not even manage to finish speaking before the dwarf named Dwalin had hung up his cloak on a peg and strode inside and busily began to finish off Bilbo’s supper. Bilbo would’ve kindly asked him what he was doing in his home but that train of thought was cut off, for almost as soon as the door swung shut yet another tremendous ring came from the doorbell.

Bilbo opened it, finding another dwarf, this time white-bearded and wearing a deep red cloak. “Balin, at your service!” He peered over a flabbergasted Bilbo’s shoulder and saw the blue-bearded dwarf. “I see the feast has begun already!”

“Feast!” Bilbo exclaimed to himself even as he felt a little faint. What feast had he organized? “Won’t you come in for a little tea?” He found himself asking.

“A little beer would suit me better, if it’s all the same to you, my good lad,” the dwarf said with a weathered smile. “And perhaps could you fetch me a cake? Do you have seed-cake, perhaps?”

“Lots,” Bilbo answered, and it was to even his own surprise that he found himself scuttling off to the pantries in search of beer and seed-cakes; upon his return Dwalin and Balin were speaking like old friends (in fact they were brothers) and it was not long till someone else came to the door with a shorter, less loud ring at the doorbell.

“On my way!” Bilbo called and opened the door, this time finding himself face-to-face (or rather, face-to-rather-magnificent-bust, though he dare not admit it) with two Big Folk, one a giant, raven-haired man nearly seven feet tall and another a beautiful blonde woman, and they were respectably dressed in a red shirt with a black dinner jacket and a deep red dress made of some material that mildly reflected the light of the oil lamp outside Bilbo’s door.

“Cozy, if a little small,” the woman commented. 

“Looks like we’re already late,” the man grunted sourly. “The food will run out.”

“Any chef’s specials tonight?” The woman asked, and Bilbo felt a little ill.

“Chef’s - chef’s specials?”

“I believe I’ll take the tenderloin chateaubriand steak,” the man said. “With a red wine of your recommendation.”

“And I think I’d like to do some grilled trout,” the woman continued. “With grilled zucchini and rice.”

At this point Mister Baggins was getting rather cross; these visitors were so rudely barging into his home and these two had the audacity to treat him like a chef! But, his more sensible side thought, judging by the visitors it was more than likely that someone - the Sackville Bagginses, perhaps - had spread a false rumor that his home was a restaurant and these people were simply mistaken rather than malicious, and so he remained too meek to correct any of them as they hung up their jackets on the pegs and went into his home and sat down on the biggest chairs he possessed, a little ways away from the dwarves.

Besides, he didn’t have time to tell the Big People a piece of his mind for the doorbell rang once again and as soon as the door was open in hopped two more dwarves, with blue hoods, silver belts and yellow beards. 

“Kili at your service!” Said one, “and Fili!” Added the other. “Dwalin and Balin here already, I see,” Kili said. “Let us join the throng!”

The poor hobbit rushed about, forced to put a skillet on the stove to cook the steak when the black-haired man politely but visibly irritably asked when their orders were coming, and he had barely had a sip of his strongest brandy before the doorbell rang yet again - more dwarves. He was unsurprised as Nori, Dori, Ori, Oin and Gloin came in, hung up their cloaks, and settled on the long-table with the other dwarves which had, during Bilbo’s absence, been piled with food from his pantry.

Finally, after serving two plates in front of the Big People with a steak and fish (he had hardly any idea what cheteaubriand was nor any idea if the fish in his pantry was trout; at this point he was beyond caring) he was dragged to the door by, this time, not a ring of the doorbell but a rapping noise. Someone was using a stick to rap on his freshly painted door! Bilbo was, it was fair to say, rather upset by now and deliberately took his time getting to the door, then yanked it open.

And in fell four more dwarves, piling atop each other, and in the background was a laughing Gandalf. He had made quite the mess of the beautiful door, too - but in the process had also mangled the rune he’d writ upon it yesterday until it looked like just another series of scratches.

“Carefully!” He chuckled. “It is not like you, my dear Bilbo, to keep friends waiting beyond the door and then open the door like a pop-gun! Allow me to introduce Bifur, Bofur, Bombur, and especially Thorin.”

“At your service!” The three dwarves cried, while Thorin himself glared sullenly at Bilbo for being squashed under the rather fat and heavy Bombur. 

“Who are these folk, Gandalf?” Bilbo hissed as soon as he apologized to Thorin to the point he muttered ‘pray don’t mention it’ and stopped frowning. “Why are they all here, and why do they all think my home is a restaurant?”

Gandalf blinked, then laughed. “My boy, I would have no idea! Though dwarves are not unlike you hobbits in the sense that they have mighty appetites.”

“And them?” Bilbo gestured as subtly as he could at the two big people in the corner having their own little romantic candlelit dinner, though Bilbo had no idea where they’d gotten that candelabra or the scented candles atop them or the sparkling wine or the Man-sized table or the gold cutlery - but that was beside the point.

“Hm!” Gandalf beamed. “Those two, I truly did not expect - but I can tell you who they are! Those are my dear friends, Harry Potter and Fleur Delacour.”

“Fleur Delacour!” Bilbo exclaimed. “The one who writes the most delightful articles for the Chronicle, perhaps?”

“Indeed she does write for the Chronicle,” Gandalf confirmed, even as he approached them. Bilbo snuck towards the two - well, three of them, now - curious of what they might discuss. Fleur stood up to give Gandalf a warm embrace while the man - Harry, he had been called - lazily saluted at the old wizard.

Strangely, though, as close as he might approach, he simply could not pick up a single word that they spoke. He could hear them, certainly, but the words sounded like gibberish; not like any language he’d ever heard used in Middle-Earth, and he could only conclude that perhaps it was some sorcery of Gandalf’s to prevent eavesdropping. From eavesdroppers like himself. Bilbo remembered his manners and bustled off instead, hoping he wasn’t noticed.

The dwarves finished their feast - emptying Bilbo’s pantries entirely, a travesty that made the owner of the home faint enough that he required half an hour just lying on his side on his best with a his untouched mug of brandy at his side - and began discussing their trade, speaking of mines and goblins and dragons and all that rot, far too adventurous for poor Bilbo’s taste. Meanwhile, Master Gandalf continued to chat with the two Big Folk and they began discussing business of their own, not that Bilbo knew what it might be.

“He… is really rather tubby, isn’t he?” Harry commented warily.

“I have the utmost faith in him,” Gandalf replied.

Fleur glanced at Bilbo, who was bustling about panicking as the dwarves tossed his plates and cutlery back into the kitchen, and looked at him. He was bright, certainly, almost blindingly so, as bright in the Void as even Gandalf himself or Harry. He would determine the fate of this world, no doubt about it. Fleur hoped that their interference wouldn’t change the game too badly. As far as she could see in the Void, it was fairly loyal to if they hadn’t come, for their influence was greatest in the North; however, events that involved large concentrations of magic - Bilbo picking up the Ring, for example - caused her future sight to blur and become murky. 

Fleur and Harry had already agreed to assist the company, if indirectly to minimize their direct impact on the Company’s courses of action. However, it would be highly devastating to their own well-being, as well as that of most living things in Middle-Earth, were Bilbo to find the Ring, but then he killed, letting it fall into the hands of any of the dwarves or, worse, one of the goblins. Harry himself vehemently refused to approach the Ring anymore, not since that encounter some five hundred years ago - Fleur was certain Harry exaggerated the effects of the Ring on his mental health, but then again, the experience must have been a shock to someone who was so powerful that almost nothing had been able to hurt him for thousands of years.

“At least help him get some exercise on your journey,” Harry said. “Make him do push-ups, or something. Look at those scrawny arms.”

“Not all of us survive the destruction of our bodies to temporarily become bodiless feä until we receive vastly upgraded bodies, dear Harry,” Gandalf said.

Harry and Fleur both snorted. 

“What?” Asked a mystified Gandalf. He was promptly ignored.

“How strong is Mithril?” Harry asked suddenly, curious. “I’ve heard great things about it, but it’s rare enough that I haven’t seen it in person. Since nobody ventures into Moria anymore…”

“Very strong indeed,” Gandalf confirmed. “Light as cotton and strong as a dragon’s scales.”

“How strong compared to, say, steel?” Harry continued.

Gandalf frowned. “I don’t rightly know,” he said. “Mithril is so valuable that performing experiments on it must not have crossed anybody’s mind. However, I can tell you that lightly woven Mithril chainmail will protect you from strikes that would split apart steel plates in two.”

“Apart from the blunt trauma.”

“Apart from that,” Gandalf agreed.

“And its magical properties? Do you know anything about it?”

“No idea, I’m afraid,” Gandalf confessed. “The only remotely magical object I know of crafted from Mithril is the great Lady Galadriel’s Ring, Nenya. It might be wise to ask her.”

“Final question,” Harry said. “How much Mithril is in circulation?”

“Close to none,” Gandalf replied promptly. “Mithril is hoarded jealously by everyone who has it. It is worth ten times its weight in gold - but the status it brings to the owner will likely keep them from parting with these items regardless.”

“Hm,” Harry grunted. “Unfortunate. Seems like it could be very useful.”

“Substitutes exist,” Gandalf offered. “Certain dwarven artisans reside in the Iron Hills, and some more significantly further to the East, who have dedicated their entire lives to metalwork. The steel they forge from the highest quality iron in Middle-Earth is woven with so many spells during its months-long forging process that their durability, strength, and lightness are unmatched by anything except Mithril itself. The greatest craftsmen of the elves from the First and Second Ages have produced similar products.”

“I can make spellforged steel myself,” Harry shrugged. “And not to sound too pompous, but they’re much higher quality than you expect. After all, I don’t use an ordinary forge, I use Alduin’s magical flames. Even if my technique is inferior to these dwarves or elves, my tools are significantly better, so I can assume the quality would be similar.”

“Hm,” Gandalf stroked his chin. “Once again, I recommend you inquire with Lady Galadriel. I have not had any interest in Mithril, neither academically nor had a desire to possess it.”

“I shall do that later,” Fleur said. “Do you believe they will be safe?”

“I do. The world is much safer than it used to be. The Snowfolk and the Mages of Gundabad are locked in conflict with the goblins, which would surely force the goblins to keep their heads down. Meanwhile the darkness of Mirkwood, upon the destruction of Dol Guldur, has been slowly but gradually pushed back by the forces of King Thranduil. Their greatest threat will remain Smaug.” Gandalf paused. “Is there any reason neither of you have eliminated Smaug?”

“Let the midgets do it themselves, it builds character,” Harry snarked, but Gandalf frowned.

“We don’t want to interfere in the events of Middle-Earth,” Fleur replied. “We are not born here. We are not of this world. We fear that should our influence unnecessarily leak, evil might try to take advantage of it.”

“You have defeated evil before.”

“If you’re referring to the incident I had with He Who Shall Not Be Named, then I didn’t even win. Not really.” Harry looked at Gandalf, green eyes seemingly glowing. “The two of us threw so much energy at each other that we were both physically obliterated. If it weren’t for my soul-bond with Fleur, or my  _ Animapyxis _ , then I would have died there. I’ve already told Fleur but, I have a sneaky suspicion that both myself and Sauron would have been able to do more damage if we hadn’t shanked each other. If anything, we could’ve both fought harder within the Void - but disturbances there will attract rather unsavory and rather ancient guests.”

“You were not fighting at your full strength?” Gandalf breathed.

“You should know well enough that magic isn’t as simple as going from zero percent to one hundred percent. There’s also the magical richness of the environment, your emotions and intent, your channeling equipment - so on, so forth. But yes, I suspect I could’ve been a lot more destructive if I wanted. In the Void, where my magic isn’t limited my silly things like bodies, this is especially true.”

“How did you become so powerful?” Gandalf asked, genuinely curious. 

“Master of Death. Spooky, huh?” Harry waggled his fingers and Fleur rolled her eyes. “Four thousand years of yoga also helps.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Fleur said. Harry smirked. “Harry was a child of prophecy. Then he successfully fulfilled his prophecy, and later became what was known as the Master of Death. An old folk tale, which I didn’t really believe, and frankly I still don’t - but we have no other reasonable hypothesis to why Harry might be so ridiculously magically powerful.”

“I still like the theory that a long time ago, one of my ancestors was brave or stupid enough to stick his cock inside a dragon,” Harry commented. Rather unnecessarily.

“Shut up,” Fleur said. “It’s not a bad theory at all. I have Veela blood, and I was already significantly stronger than Ron or Katie. My magical heritage makes me better able to channel magic, to control it, and contain it within my body. If Harry were a mixed offspring of a different, significantly more magically powerful species, then it’s possible to have come where he is now.”

“I must say I find this Master of Death concept intriguing,” Gandalf mused. “I have always… smelled, perhaps, is the best word to use, the scent of death on you, Harry. Not in a negative way, but the warm inevitability of Mandos’ embrace is what you remind me of.”

“You’re saying there’s credit to that theory?” Fleur frowned.

“I am. And mayhaps others will agree. Lady Galadriel, Saruman. Perhaps you could even pay a visit to old Tom Bombadil.”

“Tom Bombadil,” Harry murmured, staring at Gandalf as if he’d just had a revelation.

“Indeed. Of all the beings on Middle-Earth he is the oldest and will likely have much experience in the magical. Also, his wife bakes the most delightful cakes, I tell you.”

“Hm,” Harry said. He shared a look with Fleur, and they nodded to each other. “Great. Thanks for your help, Old Man.”

“Youngsters these days,” Gandalf grumbled.

“I suppose you’ll be taking the Fellowship to Rivendell, then?” Fleur asked.

“How did you know?”

“It’s on the way to Erebor. Besides, it’s always better to have Lord Elrond’s advice than not,” Fleur shrugged. “It was a logical guess.”

“Well then, yes. Why do you ask? Will you be there?”

“One of us, assuredly,” Fleur said. “So… we’ll see you there, I suppose. Give our thanks to Mister Baggins for the good food, even if I’m fairly certain that wasn’t trout.”

Gandalf chuckled as Harry and Fleur left the hobbit-hole, but not before Fleur pulled out a book from nowhere and placed it upon the table beside the empty plates and dishes. Gandalf watched them disappear, and then turned his attention to the book. He flipped through the ‘Lonely World Guide to Middle-Earth’. Many of them were featured in the Chronicle, but some were unique to this book, it seemed. He chuckled softly to himself; Bilbo would certainly appreciate this. And it was also signed by the author Fleur Delacour herself! He put the book back down and listened in to the dwarves begin to discuss their mission over some wine and pipe-weed.

**T.A. 2941, May**

Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief.

The Last Homely Home in the east. The Company had made it safely to Rivendell, even after that terrifying encounter with trolls. Which he was already starting to feel like it was an exciting memory rather than a terrible nightmare. Material for a book. Perhaps he could pen a novel, like his distant ancestor, Amarylla Took. To think she had been wandering her entire life - Bilbo was exhausted from just two weeks of travel!

The elves had welcomed the dwarves and hobbit, despite the bubbling resentment of elves that the dwarves harbored deep in their gut and assumed nobody else could notice. Lord Elrond had been a most wonderful guest, wise and kind, while his lady wife was on some sort of journey at the moment. Lady Arwen, Lords Elladan and Elrohir all spoke highly of their mother and Bilbo was curious to meet her.

Bilbo spent much time in the library of Rivendell, fascinated by the great collections of scrolls, tablets and tomes, and it was there that he met the giant, black-haired and green-eyed man that had asked for a steak in Bilbo’s home. Bilbo had not been quiet enough in sneaking out of the library at that point because piercing green eyes pinned him on the spot.

“If it isn’t Mister Bilbo Baggins,” the man smirked in a rather unpleasant manner. “How do you do?”

Bound by the conventions of etiquette, Bilbo had no other choice but to reply, “excellent, thank you, and yourself?”

“Just fine,” he replied. “Do you know who I am?”

“You are the gentleman who mistook my home for a restaurant and demanded service,” Bilbo said before he could stop himself.

Thankfully, Harry was not offended and simply laughed. “I did compensate you for your services.”

“You did? Apart from the book—”

“I think you should check on your bed when you get home. You might find it useful,” Harry shrugged. 

Bilbo could only nod in confusion as the man stood (he was so tall) and patted his shoulder. “Good man,” he said. “How are you feeling about your travels?”

“Oh, just fine,” Bilbo said. “We’re walking all day after our ponies bolted, and my poor feet are aching and we’re only having two meals a day and each of these meals are terribly poor in nutrition and quantity, and of course there’s the matter of sleeping on a reed mattress on the cold, hard and bumpy ground!”

Harry smirked. “I suppose it is like that,” he agreed. “We’ll see if you change your mind once after your journey is finished and you return to the Shire.”

“I daresay I’d collapse of exhaustion long before my journey’s end,” Bilbo said mournfully. 

“In my experience, I think your aching, bleeding feet and wheezing lungs is what makes the journey all the more worthwhile,” he said with a wistful smile. “To be at the peak of a mountain or standing before an emerald-green oasis in a sea of sand, or to watch the storm roll through the green valley - and to be able to say, you conquered your journey with your own two feet.”

“Have you traveled much, then?”

Harry looked mock-offended. “Of course I have! I accompany my wife everywhere she goes when she needs to take pictures for her Chronicle articles.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened. He had forgotten about the Chronicle editions, tucked safely in his bookshelf at home (he had debated whether or not to take it with him, but decided he’d rather not have them ruined by rain or mud) and the pages written by Fleur Delacour, apparently Harry’s wife. “Do you think I could meet her?” He asked.

“Alas, no. She’s in Lothlorien right now,” Harry shrugged. “And I know you’re single. Do keep your hands to yourself.”

Bilbo sputtered at the indignity of such an accusation while Harry laughed at his expense and left after thumping his large, heavy hand on his shoulder a couple of times. Eventually Bilbo gathered his wits about him and determinedly strode out of the library, not noticing that Harry had seemed to disappear from the straight, long corridor at a speed far faster than even a Man could run. His attention was directed anyway at Gandalf, who stood looking out into the valley, puffing on his pipe.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo greeted. 

“Bilbo,” Gandalf replied pleasantly. 

“How long will this journey be?” Bilbo asked abruptly.

Gandalf paused. “I do not know,” he replied finally. “I suspect it will take some months, even without the various setbacks you may face. But do not lose courage, my little friend, for I do sincerely believe it will be worth it in the end.”

“Master Harry said something similar,” Bilbo groused. “But I do not think I will survive a journey like this. I told him so as well.”

Gandalf puffed on his pipe for a little longer. “Well, friend,” Gandalf said, “surely you have read the biographies of your ancestors. Two of them, to be specific.”

“As every other Hobbit child has,” Bilbo said. “The Adventures of Amarylla Took and The Diary of Dazzling Daisy’s Daring Deeds. But it does not feel real, reading them. There is a reason why only children read those books and not sensible adult hobbits.”

“But they are quite real,” Gandalf commented. “I assure you. But both of them, I think, were rather out of their depth during the beginning of their adventure. Both were lucky, in that they had mentors to guide them, and you - well, you have no clear mentor, which might make it difficult. But you do have mighty fine companions - thirteen of them, in fact! - that you could learn plenty from. And myself, of course,” Gandalf added at the end.

“On occasion,” Bilbo snarked, and Gandalf chuckled.

“On occasion, indeed.” Then he clapped his weathered hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “My dear boy, you should know that, should you ever need someone to speak to, of your troubles or of mundane things - I shall be here for you. I am busy at times, but I do care for your wellbeing.”

“I - thank you, Gandalf,” Bilbo replied, feeling oddly flustered. “I shall keep it in mind.”

“On an unrelated topic, Bilbo,” Gandalf said, changing course, “I met with the lovely Lady Fleur the other week and I heard this most delightful riddle. I know that you enjoy riddles, so I thought you might wish to hear it.” Gandalf smiled under his bushy beard and his thick eyebrows wagged as he pulled a piece of parchment from his robes. “There is a Man, an elf, a dwarf, a hobbit and an orc. Each lives in a house with different colored doors, each smoke a different type of pipe-weed, each drinks a different beverage and each has a different animal as a pet…”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update and short chapter. I will be busy for the next few weeks, so I wanted to get something out for you all. 
> 
> Welcome to The Hobbit, now. Plus two meddling old Warlocks.


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